


No Deed Left Unpunished

by VisceralComa



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Despair, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Porn, F/M, Grimdark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Modern Character in Thedas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, Stream of Consciousness, Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 70,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9970292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralComa/pseuds/VisceralComa
Summary: History has proven how far Inquisitions go, the depths they are willing to sink, and the sins they commit all for the "greater good."  Imprisoning, interrogating, and torturing heretics under suspicion of being a spy is something all Inquisitions have in common. Exhausted for all they could acquire from her, they left her - forgot her.  Buried with Haven, only compassion would save her.





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:  
> (1) If you've never read Asunder, you will not like the portrayal of Cole.  
> (2) If you think Vivienne is self serving, heartless, manipulative or a bitch, you will not like this story.  
> (3) If you think Sera is crazy or hard to understand you will not like this story.

_I can’t come in unless you open._

He probably should have said that out loud.

The inky red snow crunched under the soles of his shoes with laces that didn’t listen. His friends wept with dark rose splotches that dripped as he hurried through the in betweens. He stretched the veil before him. Puffs of smoke where the veil snapped back disturbed the motes of life that remained stale until stirred as he vacated where he once was but wasn’t anymore.

They called it Haven but he could not seek shelter. Not unless they opened; not unless they invited him. He couldn’t cross through, not even with the veil. It’s borders were resolute. The wood shivered and the iron shuddered as he tried to pass through it with a bang.

“I can’t come in unless you open.” This time he made sure to say it.

Magic whispered behind him as footsteps emerged from the shadows. He turned and folded the veil close. He was behind the Hunter, turning as the barrier opened. His friends sang together. Whistling and weeping at the things he had to do, but the Hunter was going to hurt him.

They splattered as his daggers fell back. He soothed his friends, cleaning them in cloudy icy snow.

He felt them come out, opening and inviting him in but when he looked to check who it was - bright. He flinched, shielding himself and his friends. Dark thin shadows against a flaming sun. They moved. The mark - the anchor _._  The power of the anchor was blinding and hurt his sight so he looked up with his head and eyes.

“I came to warn you, to help.” He began and they stopped before him. It didn’t match. When he **looked**  they were too bright but when he looked he could see them easy. He kept his hat angled to shield his sight anyway.  “People were coming to hurt you.  You probably already know.”

“What is this? What is going on?” The bright one said.

“The Templars come to kill you.” He stated.

“Templars?! Is this the order’s response to our talks with the mages?  Attacking wildly?” The armored one, the lion and the commander. Commander Lion spoke with a deep fear and disbelief swallowed in a growling angry snarl.

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One.” He spoke soft, breaking the news. The bright one stepped back, fingers and body twitched as they considered his words. Faltering festering feelings.

 _If I’d only gone to them instead! I knew they would! She said so!_  

“You know him?”  The bright one knew, but it was blinding and deafening to follow the regret, so it was lost in her shiny glow.  He couldn’t figure out more.  “He knows you.  You took his mages.” He continued and turned as he felt a pool of hate crest over a sea of red that descended down the mountains. “There…” He pointed toward the peak where the Elder One glowered and plotted.  He turned toward the Commander but he was stepping forward as the other, the Elder One’s general and all his red lyrium armor oozed dark and blinding all at once. It was nowhere near as swirling blindness as the Bright One, the one they called the Herald.

“I know that man...but this Elder One.”

“He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

“Cullen, give me a plan.  Anything.”

“Haven is no fortress.” Cullen spoke, summoning every bit of courage to squash and hide the fear. _Not again. I won’t lose Haven to abominations as I did Kinloch Hold. this will not be another Kirkwall._  “If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can.” The Herald nodded.

“Mages! You- you have sanction to engage them. That is Samson. He will not make it easy. Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives, for all of us!”

The further she got the more he could see, the more his sight improved and the more he was hit with the swirling mass of hurts - old and new of Haven.  Hurtling hurling hurts in haunting handfuls. With the Breach closed it was easier, he could slip between to flit forward and fast. A child lost in the chaos searching for his sister.  A tranquil with history beyond his reach, unsure to pack their herbs. A young mage, crying fearful of the descending templars.

“Its alright.” He muttered and directed them where it was safest. They forgot him.

Helping and aiding everywhere and anywhere. New aches grew louder - building and drowning the old and ancient ones that pulsed and bubbled beneath the snow and stone. The dragon came - forcing the pain and hurts toward a great beacon for all - the Chantry. 

They ran; templars chased.  He couldn’t keep up, there were too many. He encouraged them to run, to stay down and avoid them. A girl ran back, he couldn't make her forget why she went back.  “Your rabbit is here.” He pulled and stretched the veil and the stuffed toy was in his hands. It was small and thanked him for his help, for reuniting it with it’s girl.

Head lifted, he saw a man trapped in fire. Burning and burning, pleading for help. He couldn’t help - too far. So much smoke, coughing, choking, clawing for air. He flashed his daggers as a templar made the girl scream.  Blood, not hers.  His. He had to forget that. He didn’t want to bleed. It didn’t always have to work like that.

The man was breathing, far away. The bright one had saved him. He smiled. They helped.

A woman trapped beneath a beam, another fallen near pots - fire racing, he stepped toward them but lost them in the glow. He stumbled back and directed his sight to a cloaked man. He fought the Templar even though he had no weapon. The blade clashed against the hidden vambrace beneath dark red robes. Red that stained and seeped across the whites and gold. Cole stepped and ran, the veil whispered as it stretched and whooshed.

His friends did well and wept watery wet tears that trickled behind him leaving life’s footprints in the snow. It would wash away one day. The snow melting and it would dry and be lost. Death stains more than dirt and is not so easily washed away from the fade. Only time, but it would leave behind a wisp, a trace, a memory - an echo.

_Help, someone please._

The Chancellor cried and clutched his side. Cole held him. He couldn’t walk. Too many cried out. He tried to look as he helped Chancellor Roderick and every time he was blinded. The Herald was helping them. He made a good choice coming here. The Herald cares.

They were there, almost.  He could see it but couldn’t **see** it. So he looked with his eyes as the Chancellor limped into the Chantry. A sign of hope, of safety, but there was so much despair, hurt, pain. It permeated and stretched the veil around him. Soaked and seeped, fat drops of screams and sobs. He flinched to look at the Herald. A shadow of confusion just making it past the light.

“He tried to stop a Templar.” He explained soft. “The blade went deep.” Already the Chancellor was blurring from inside. The veil clung and twisted, ready to take his spirit - his soul back to the fade. He was here, he would watch but for now he clung to this side. It grounded and churned in crashing waves as blood swirled.  “He is going to die.” Cole added. He had tried get there faster but he was too late.

“What a charming boy.” Roderick added.

Cole set him down as others followed after him.  He was careful of the position, the angle. The red tear and stained cloth spread and he frowned. He didn’t have any potions or poultices on him so he put pressure there, holding him together. If he could, he would stitch him together. He wanted to help he did but he was afraid. Old hurts. The Divine dead, chaos. Who would stand out against this? They needed order, assurance. Roderick tried, he did his best. No one faulted him for that.

“Herald.  Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.” Commander Lion’s voice shook and quivered. Confident but deep down he feared, the courage beat back the fear.

“I’ve seen an archdemon. I was in the fade, but it looked like that.” Cole offered. They had to know. It was important. It was a dream, a memory echoing. But this dragon… it looked like the archdemon but it was different.

“I don’t care what it looked like, it cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven.” The Lion shook with ferocious contempt. He yearned for the old song, fingers twitched at his side.

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village.” Cole explained. He had to.   “He only wants the Herald.”  

 _Someone - anyone please please help_.

People were screaming in silence. They wanted help and he tried to move away. He wanted to but Roderick clung to him. Rust staining his fingers until he thought it away. **No**. He admonished himself. That’s not how it's supposed to work. The rust came back darkening the clothes he wore.

Time stretched as the Herald looked around the Chantry. Her gaze on every single person. She hurt, he could see that from here, but didn’t dare try **seeing** _._

“If it will save these people.” The Herald, lithe and light spoke, drawing him from staring at the shadows that clawed at the veil. “He can have me.”

“It won’t.”  He looked toward where the Elder One seethed in the distance. He was hurt from the world. Everything was wrong, nothing was right, and the Herald had something that was his. But he was wrong, what he wanted to do. What he did… it would cause more pain. Cole could see that.  “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them. Kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like- “  Cullen sighed and shook his head. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets. Cause one last slide.”

“We’re overrun. To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

“We’re dying but we can decide how.” Cullen said and lowered his voice. “Many don’t get that choice.” Cullen

Roderick had been quiet, breathing slowed and pain wracking. But now, he looked up at the boy beside him and then down into the Chantry.  The people huddled close by the doors and room. They filled the chantry. Barely two hundred once roamed Haven and now.. Barely half of them were here. Others fitted through the rooms and dungeons, blankets, potions and poultices.  But Roderick looked past them at the door to the dungeon.  

There was a path.

“Yes.  That.”  Cole nodded, gazing where he looked. “Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

Herald and Lion broke away to stare at the Chancellor. Annoyance and anger at Roderick bubbled but it was pushed aside as Roderick’s graveled and weakened voice spoke.

“There is a path.” Roderick began. “You wouldn’t know it unless you made the summer pilgrimage as I have.”  Roderick took a steadying breath and stared at the dungeon door. He could do something to help, to ensure they survived.  He staggered to his feet, the Herald shifted to catch him, “The people _can_ escape.”  He looked at the Herald and frowned. “She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I cou-could tell you.”

“What about it, Cullen?  Will it work?”

“Possibly.If he shows us the path. But what of your escape?”

The Herald looked away, determined but unsure. 

“Perhaps you will surprise it? Find a way?” Even Cullen knew the words were hollow.  The chance of survival was slim.  To survive an avalanche whilst in the center of the affected area was improbable.  He looked down but steeled himself as he turned toward the Chantry. “Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick.  Move!”

“Herald if you are meant for this.  If the Inquisition is meant for this…” Roderick gave a gasp as he inhaled to continue speaking. “I pray for you.”

Cole grasped onto the Chancellor. He had to help him help. There were so many people crying, pain, agony swirling around them but this would help them in the long run. He ignored the cries as masses descended into the Dungeon behind him. The stones wept cold frosty drops and the braziers wailed as they swung with heat.

_Loud. Hungry.  Help… someone. I want to go home._

Echos of what happened stumbled him. Cole paused their movement. Agony. Woe. Despair. They swirled around him but torment was the most abundant. Someone was dying. He couldn’t look, not yet. 

“This way. There is a pathway through this room.” Roderick pointed. Bookshelves blocked it and soldiers moved, uncaring of the books that fell. It was okay, they were only old paper.

A shifted brick and a doorway. It lead into a cold icy path. People moved quickly hoarding through but they didn’t push. There were forks, pathways, the ice cold and dry. But as more people, more heat came through it became wet and slick, glossing with moist ice.  Carts were pulled, animals, and things.  People brought what they could carry and no more. Barrells of food, blankets, weapons, parcels of herbs, stashes of potions, bandages were left behind. They couldn’t take everything but they took what they needed, what they thought was important.

A sparkling man carried another like Cole did. He looked like the fade, it tasted funny and sharp but was friendly and warm. The one in his arms dragged his feet as he shook, fearful of what they ran from.

“Just hold onto me Alexius.”

“Dorian. Wait  we have to go back.”

“Not now. We have to get to safety.” The man’s mustache twitched and swirled. Cole looked away.

“The other cells. Did you check them?”

“What?”

“There were other prisoners. One in particular. She was asleep.”

“She… she wasn’t asleep.”

“No. **No** _._ ” The man cried and clung to the sparkling one.  

The winding whispering tunnels sloped up and down.  Stones and growth came into view but everything was still icy and snow.  The path let out besides a mountain and they saw the dark night sky. A distant roar had them anxious and urging.  Panic whirled around the mass as they moved further from Haven. Cole could feel their hurts in haven. Some buried in snow - bleeding. Others left behind in pain - dying. But they were distant and it was hard to hear and they began dropping as the snow descended down.

Roderick gave a soft cry and prayer as he stumbled and Cole barely caught him as the flare was sent up.

Cole watched, hearing the pain disappear as they passed on into the veil, reclaimed by the fade. A soldier at the gate who survived the first wave. The light and wisp dispersed. A woman trapped beneath rubble, her armor heavy as it crushed the life from her. A child lost, taken in the snow as the ground rumbled. Soldiers in their last final moments. Cole listened and turned away as he sensed the few remaining. They dropped one by one.

Nine lives he could see clearly, drowning in pain and hurt that he couldn’t help. One bright sun. As the survivors moved he paid attention to them.

The Commander roared orders to the soldiers. They had to keep moving, no time to wait for any survivors of the Elder One to find them. Trekking through cold and shivers.

Seven thumping hurts.

Six crying out in pain.

Five pleading for death.

Four in solemn acceptance.

Three became numb.

Two...

He **looked** toward them. One was vibrant and bright this far. The Herald was alive still. Her light strong and pulsing. The other… the other was weak. They would die soon enough. Cole waited and waited. They grew fainter the further Cole moved. They would die soon. In pain. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, before you accuse me having too many fics, I would like to say in my defense that I like writing things that are different from the established niche even if it's going to take me years to bloody get anywhere. While a Colemance isn't that different in the fandom (most colemance fics are lost to the void of Cullenmance and Solasmance stories there - SERIOUSLY), but one where the MCIT does not immediately get on the good side of the Inquisition, in fact they think of her as a spy - and what does any Inquisition do with spies? I'll let that sit in your imagination (though the summary really gives it a way).
> 
> That aside. Read the Tags, they are important. I know whats going to happen because I have a very detailed outline. You must expect the soul crushing angst. I warn you RIGHT NOW this fic will not be very happy until the very end. I have a load more tags to add but this is a good start.


	2. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS!!!!** : Implied/Referenced physical, mental, and emotional torture. Implied graphic violence.

Regrettably, she lived.

Worn blankets rumbled, the ground shifted below, and the creak of iron popping from stone as the ceiling let loose a dusting of dirt.  While covered in a poor attempt to shield her from the damp dismal cell, winter and frost crept through the stone in slick icy tendrils, her small puff of breath visible in the low light. Thin bandaged fingers slid out to raise the blanket. They trembled with the effort as they revealed a gaunt hollowed face. Large eyes peered out, uncertain. The skin of of her lids blackened and splotched with blues yet lined with a bawdy red. Lips cracked and bleeding with tendrils of blood dripped where skin leaked. Her coverings shook as a dry rattle raked her chest in heaves which awakened her senses and herself.

She swept her dark gaze across. The distant rumbles that roused her were quelled and quiet, with fallen braziers that clanged against the floor. The opening that would shine daylight into the dungeon was covered, as it always had been since her arrival. She could spot the faint embers that gave little light in the dark and a single fallen torch that rolled across the stone.

She continued her visual exploration of the dungeon that had been her unwilling home for months.

The adjacent cell to hers was empty. Her breath hitched before laboring in panting heaves as she shifted with haste toward the bars that separated the cells. The grate of metal on stone as a chain dragged behind her and the blanket pulled off her, exposing first her blonde fuzzed head, hair shorn off in clumps or ripped out with dark brown pus-filled scabs. Skin taut against what little muscle she had and the sharp edges of her bones jutted out from her emaciated figure. Limbs trembled in the effort it took for her to move and her head wobbled from the strain.

“Gere-” her hoarse voice cut off in a cough. “Gereon?” She tried again, raising and looking around. It didn't echo but fell against the stone - mute. The bedroll was empty, the blanket of her cellmate had been given to her but everything else in the cell that was his was present. The stale bread and cheese on a tray, the water pail and waste bucket were closest to the bars, but he was nowhere.  

She coughed into her palm. She only remembered to drink water from her pail before attempting again. The small wooden cup raised, she drank slow.

“Guard!” She tried her loudest but the most she could manage was a hoarse croak that creaked her chords. The guards had always answered her when she called, out of obligation at first and then pity later. They had to make sure the captured spy lived for another session of questions.

Flinching, she shifted toward her bars and was shocked when the door swung open. The frame loose in the stone, hanging unhinged as the ceiling had a crack in it.

 _No. You have to stay put. You'll get in trouble if they find you out of the cell again_. She admonished herself and drew back. The few times she had escaped were a harsh lesson that had her back aching and scalp tingling on the memory. She never tried again, even given the opportunity.

She scuttled back until she sat in the corner, blanket wrapped around herself as the cell door swung and then stilled.

Whilst waiting she dozed off, head jerking up in panic as she expected someone - anyone to come for her. They never left her alone this long.

She watched the single open door to the hallway, waiting to hear familiar metal jangling as they drew closer. However as the silence stretched, she wondered if he might be lurking instead. Watching for her reaction, observing every one of her movements and listening. Always listening.  Her chest thundered as she examined every dark corner, expecting to see the shadowed silhouetted bulk of her tormentor - her interrogator.

“Please...I've been good.” She whispered, and curled into herself, waiting.

Why was no one answering? Why was no one coming? Why was she alone? Why was her door open? Did she do something right? Were they letting her go? Would they let her go?

She reached for the cell door and pushed it further open. It creaked on its hinges.

For a long time she watched the open doorway. Long enough she drank and nibbled on cheese. Yet still no one sought her out. No guards, no dithering Sisters come to offer her bandages, and better yet he had yet to come.

Perhaps her captor would come again? It had been months since she’d seen her jailor? Perhaps the Interrogator had fulfilled his duty? Retrieved as much viable information as she could give. And she gave. She gave him and her everything she could think of.

Was this her reward?

With tentative steps, and the dragging of her chain, she exited her cell and paused. The artery in her neck bulged with the rushing of blood. Pupils wide and dark as one foot remained in the cell, she looked around. Her body swam in the ratty threadbare sack she wore, the edges slipped around her thighs as it uncrumpled.

“Hello?” She took another step. “Sisters?” She pitched. No answer. “Anyone?”

Solitude was no reward. Left to her own mind, to her own thoughts, to her own dreams, to her memories. Trapped with nothing but herself would be a punishment liken to a visit from the Pale Horseman.

Before the tears came, she moved. Avoiding the embers, she picked up the fallen torch - or attempted to. It dragged across the floor, heavy with the metal casing until she managed to fasten it back on it’s holder.  No longer being smothered it lit up the area.

Water dripped from the closed grate and cracked ceiling, leaking onto the dungeon floor where she remembered the Herald laying. An unlocked chest with chopped logs. She managed to grip one and drop it into the brazier. As the fire was fed and stirred, it raised sparks up, wood crackling as a drafted wind chattered her teeth and drew her gaze to the doorway.

The littered hallway had been filled with barrels, pieces of carts, strewn with hay and droppings, boxes and pots, and all manner of things that had been piled high and shoved out of the way. The other cells had been opened and emptied. The guard’s office, the singular cells, and two cells across each other for _special_ prisoners. She had only been privy to the one, and it wasn’t the one with bookshelves lining the walls.

She walked only so far before the chain dragged heavy behind her. Her breath labored, she had to sit as exhaustion ate at what little energy she had that wasn’t sapped from the slow rising panic.

She rested and attempted to calm her racing thoughts but she could no more sit still than she could quiet her mind. She pushed herself. There was another cold draft of wind. The further down she went, the more she felt the chill until she was resting against the door to the cell lined with bookshelves. Only the wall she faced was revealed to open into a pathway.

The bookshelves that had once covered it were pushed to the side and a long dark pathway howled with the cold wind.

 _The pilgrimage._ Was all she thought as she finally sunk to her knees. _Roderick led them out._

She didn’t know how long she rested, but until she could stand again. The first thought being, _food._ She couldn’t venture out without eating to gain her strength back, to gain energy. She had no idea how long the pilgrimage was, no idea how long it had been, but she needed to go through the passageway to get out. She would deal with the realization they had forgotten her later. Right now, she had to get out.

She found a room at the furthest end of the hall, the door open. There were barrels of forgotten food stuffs there. The larder.  Elsewhere she salvaged blankets in carts, tents in bags, woolen socks and shoes that were either too small or too big. It took hours for her to open any of the barrels, with frequent breaks.  She outfitted herself in ratty warmth.

She ventured back to her cell to drink water and slid her pail to the final cell. The chain fastened to the shackle around her ankle inhibited her with its weight. Though it had been attached to the wall, the shifted rumbling of the ceiling and walls had left her free from limited range, it was still cumbersome as every few steps she had to sit from the strain.

It was a long process but one well worth her patience. Especially after one elongated episode of sleep, she woke.

The were barrels of apples, turnips, carrots, potatoes, packages of now stale hard bread, cured meats, and wheels of cheeses she didn’t know the name of. None of the produce was fresh, but it was fresh enough for her.  With a dagger amidst the forgotten goods in the Inquisition’s rush to escape, or so she hoped, she dug in. She cut off the rotted bits and ate her fill - which was naught but half an apple, two cuts of cheese, and a few nibbles of bread.  She drank water and retired to sleep next to the brazier.

She’d need as much energy as she could get to make the trek through the pilgrimage to catch up with the Inquisition.

The crackle of the flame should have lulled her to sleep, but it kept her awake. With a small red vial in hand, she tipped the elfroot potion back as she settled in. She’d found them amidst a box of other herbs and odds and ends she had no working knowledge of beyond references to the game and questions she asked. There was an abundance of large leafed long stalks with a rare few with purple splotches and purple tipped leaves.

She recognized them as elfroot and royal elfroot from her brief time outside the Chantry. The stalks of elfroot burst through the snow and each leaf unfurling. It was everywhere, so much so it was a nuisance - a weed but if left to mature it became different sorts depending on the locale. The Hinterlands was rife with Royal elfroot and thus the Inquisition had an unusually large store of it. But even here, abandoned in the evacuation, there were only a few drying stalks. Yet the regular stuff was collected in abundance. Threnn and Adan had made efforts to ensure the people picked it as they went or else it’d spread.

“ _It takes a lot of elfroot to make one single potion. They grow quick but they yield little oil and essence.” Adan had told her as she clung to his corner of Haven._ _She had found Taigen’s notes for him and was always welcome. Especially as she made an effort to bring him bushels of elfroot._

The memory felt bitter in her mouth.

The Inquisition was not what she thought it’d be; was not what it had been in the games; was not a beacon of hope.  Not to her. It was everything that was wrong made worse by its Herald who had ordered her incarceration.

She needed sleep.

 

* * *

 

The following days she spent in quiet preparation. The howling whistle of the wind drifted through the pilgrimage offered comfort and promise of freedom. The rustle of the flames warmed and threatened to die with each gust.

She had no mind to how far the pilgrimage stretched. With her exhaustive state she had to work herself up.

With bound blankets in rope, a dagger, she fashioned herself a bag. She carried enough stale bread, cheese, and apples as she could carry and made short ventures. Each day eating her fill. Everyday she boiled her water in the pail and drank it, if only to keep it sterile but it would run out. It dwindled on the fourth day and she worried for her thirst.

Until she found the cask of ale. Her vision swayed and head fuzzed but she tipped and leveled after much time. Her movements slowed.

She ate jerky and cured meat. Each day she felt fuller and better. Her mind cleared and she formulated a plan.

At first she shook off the passageway and turned further down the hall to the stairs she had once been dragged down. She opened the door that led to its vestibule and was shocked to see the partial collapse stairwell and beyond that a mountain of snow and trees brought down in the avalanche. She could make out the day through small pockets of leaking sky.

At the very least she could keep time now.

The pilgrimage was a long pathway, dark at first. She brought a torch with her. The walls were frosted slime and cool stone. Dry with the frigid air. Her chain echoed with each step, each drag and drop as she moved.

It took some time for her to reach the end of the stone walkway. After curving slopes and dips and dead ends she came upon an icy cavern where the wind billowed and swirled. High above, there was an opening where rustled snow drifted down and the calls of the mountain rang. A distance hoot and trees that raised high and above.

“Hello?!” She tried. Her voice strong, sound, and strident. It lifted up and echoed around her but not from up above.

The slow sunset offered a still, silent, somber solace, but no salvation.

She marked the way she came. _Onward._

There were three ways to go. The first was a dip around a corner blocked by more ice but there were stashed boxes there with fine bottles of wine and brandy covered in a heavy layer of dust.  Her finger traced over the label.  “For Divine Beatrix.” She mumbled.

She left it and intended to carry on but the low light from above and the dying flame of her torch had her turn back. She would try again tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Calisthenics when one was deprived of food was difficult, but it was necessary if she wanted to rebuild her stamina. Months in captivity, not moving except when they carted her from cell to chamber for _questioning_. It was the only movement she was afforded and now she had free reign.

Her adventures into the pilgrimage passageway revealed one long sloping downward passage that halted in a warming puddle of water, but a howl revealed more wind from between rocks and ice. She had climbed up, slipping but managed to see beyond the cave in. Another cavern, but this one with a dark red rusted spot in the center and footprints with a long streak. There was fallen broken wood and snow piling up from another opening.

The splatter of dried blood had her cautious. There were demons, and if that blood was the Herald’s… there could be more demons. The veil was thin here after the breach was sealed.

It took her three days to fully travel that passageway. The first day she’d realized she needed to divest herself of the chain on her ankle, to relieve the weight. There was enough wood and forgotten charcoal she built a fire in the icy cavern. She got the chain as close as she dared into the fire and covered it with the metal topper.

She had no frame of reference for how long it would take but she sat with a prepared book. The Chant and read through most of it before she stood and yanked the chain out. The icy floor sizzled as it melted and she raised a hammer and dropped it atop the brightest glowing chainlink in hopes to distort the shape.

The chain cooled before she made much progress and so up it went into the brazier again and the topper slid in place. It was a full day endeavor but the chain came undone. She was still inhibited by the shackle but the chain was much shorter now.

She ran out of viable water soon after and had to chip away at the ice walls, melting it down. It boiled in her metal pail.  With fresh hot water, she divested her hands of the bandages with shaky movements.

It was hard to ignore her ruddy digits and the lack of fingernails, so she opted not to. Instead she cleaned the old wounds. Careful as she could with some bars of soap she salvaged from another abandoned box.

_“You will tell me everything you know about the Warden’s disappearance.”_

_She sobbed and shook her head. “I’ve told you everything.”_

_“Liar.”_

_The metal forceps gripped her right thumbnail._

The water was red. She’d scrubbed hard enough the scabs were removed.  She slathered poultice and rebandaged them, hiding them from her view.

With less chains, she made longer trips. On the 15th daylight since she woke she trekked down the last passageway. A whole day of travel.  She’d left bundled in all the clothes she could find with blankets and her makeshift bag. She saw signs of broken carts along this path. A long forgotten toy, and even more barrels haphazardly tossed to the side.  Scrapes on the ice and footstep shaped cracks made in a rush.  The wind brought faint honks of a halla.

The walls were bone dry cold but it was still ice and she trekked through water as she came around the bend, the sounds louder and louder until-

Another cave in. This one worse than the last. Stones, branches and the ice walls cracked in jutted crystals. The sounds of honks came from above, from a tiny sliver from above.

She dropped her torch and sank to her knees.

_“Did you think I’d let you out of my sight, bas?”_

_Her interrogator laughed from his perch in the alcove. The only thing she saw at first was his booted feet and his large axe.  He raised his edge, and it glinted in the brazier light._

_“No…”_

_“No what?” came his disappointed growl._

_“No...sir.” Crying would be useless but the tears filled her eyes._

_“You should have learned by now, bas.”_

There was no escape. There was never an escape. It was a faint hope, a faint lying whisper in her dreams.


	3. Meet

No one noticed him as Cole hovered over the children. Their hurts were the loudest and required immediate attention, or they would burrow deep into them as they silence their cries. A long ache that would echo. Everyone forgot the children, especially the elven ones. The others, the older ones had deeper hurts that were loud and confused him. Their immediate pains could wait or they could aid themselves. But the children, the young ones, they were loud too but simpler and easier.

Cold. Hungry. Sleepy. All of it could be attended easy, simply. He didn’t have to make them forget. Some were too young to fully see him, the others whispered - worried but were grateful for the soup, the blanket, the comforting words, and the attention. He acknowledged them. Emotions weighted, pains soothed, wants quelled. They weren’t happy but he helped. 

Cole’s finger hovered over the pointed ear of one. Memories, whispers, faint callings of one such ear, larger and swathed in stringy hair protruding from a hollowed husk. He’d been too late. Too late _._ He wouldn’t be too late now.

He tucked the blanket around the children, feeling their hurts unwind and release. He could no longer see them, but he watched them, waiting for the nightmares before twisting and turning them away. 

Everyone needed rest.

A faint ripple across the veil of a strong and pure pride came across to him. Deep swirling cavernous black guilt, hidden behind a layer - veneer of distant obligation. It was there, still hurting, but there was nothing to be done. At least not yet. Not there, not now. He would have to wait to heal that one.

“Compassion?” Soulful and sorrowing, the elven mage recognized him. Steps lighter than snow left no prints as he approached. Old, ancient and proud.

“I’m Cole.” Cole tilted his head, hat tipped up to observe and see.

“Cole…” He spoke.

Cole didn’t want to look into his eyes, afraid the churning well would swallow him. The veil was loose, porous and leaking the fade around him. Lavender touched where they shouldn’t, reaching high up and holding the sky. 

Cole watched, careful, unsure. “It isn’t your fault. You tried, but you couldn’t open it. Sleepy, bleary, drowsy. You’re seeing, really seeing and it’s grim, gray, gutted. It makes it an unwieldy yield. You try to collect it but it’s hard, slow. It will take time.”

The elven mage frowned, brows furrowed.

“Its sticky and stretches when it should flow - never ending, never stopping. A gesture at your will and the river shifts. It shouldn’t be like this.” Cole shifted his weight as he delved deeper, listening and looking down. “You want to help.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretched. Bodies moved around him. Cole would have noticed but there within the elf’s presence it was quiet. He could think and only feel the elf’s hurts.

“Be careful, there are templars who would see harm to you.”

Cole flitted and fitted between the whole holes of people. Dark spots that called him closer, whispering willful wishes that pulled and prodded. Balming their burns, wrapping their wounds, soothing their simpers. They marched, the snow was bright and warming, but a shiver ran across the spines of a troubled people.

Knees raised, heads down, but a renewed strength every night. A spot too bright to look, with a twisting knife of remorse that edged him closer. The elven mage told the Herald to look to the north but she lingered, staring past the mountains to a valley where the dead on her shoulders were buried. A ruined village, a lost chance, a mistake made, advice untaken, a girl -

Cole had to look away, blinded. He’d looked at her then, but had saw with his eyes. The bright sun was too much. Tears pricked at his eyes.

“You might try not staring at the sun, kid.” The stone spoke, hands rubbed close to warm them. The wind bit at his skin and exposed chest but he didn’t close his jacket. He was cold, and knew how to fix it but didn’t do it. Cole squinted. He didn’t understand. “Tends to hurt your eyes.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Really? Could have fooled me.” He pointed to his shoes.

Cole looked down to his loose shoelaces. He stooped low, fingers holding them up. “Stay tied, please.” He whispered. They slid from his fingers and the veil caressed them into place, shifting and phasing through each other until they were tied, tight and tidy. “Thank you.”

“Huh.” The stone tilted his head. A quiet ache deep inside him, words wilting in his head as a play began but ended before it could come to fruition. “So what’s your name, kid?”

“I’m Cole.”

“Well, Cole. I’m Varric Tethras. Here.” The stone pulled a small cloth wrapped around bread with cheese. “You look like you haven’t eaten, kid.”

Cole started, questioning as he held the bread aloft. He didn’t need to eat. He didn’t hunger anymore, not like before. Before when he thought he _was_ Cole.

He tried to listen to the stone. Deep echoes to an old song distant and rumbling but still and somber. It made him miss things, miss how it used to be, his family of hawks and miscreants.

“Even if you had told the Seeker the truth, it wouldn’t have changed anything.” Cole tried. The ache burned. Cole frowned. He did it wrong.

He made the stone forget him, made him return to the others. The ache was too old and tangled with others hurts. It was unchanging and set in stone. It would be hard to smooth the surface, if at all. He would have to try again, when he listened more.

He gave the bread to someone who needed it, sharing it. They forgot him, but their full bellies reminded them to thank someone but they weren’t sure who.

Cole returned to those with simpler hurts. There were more of them. Yet he found himself drawn to the harsher ones, harder and difficult. Puzzles, trying to unknot the wiry thoughts and memories. Their hurts connected to others. He had to trace them and unwind others, unlocking and untangling. Breadcrumbs in the veil until he found where it released. Cole watched as the threads sagged and he pulled them to their owners, to wrap around them. Their hurts used as blankets for some and others to build. A crack in the wall filled with resolution made it stronger to the test of time. Others were crumbling breaking, their walls ready to fall. He had to return to those with whispers low in their ears and dreams. Winding the thread around them until it was a taut web for them to build their walls with wide windows to see inside but stand behind protected.

It was hard on the trek. Easier when the hold was in sight. Relief washed some of the fear away. The anxious worried - wondered if the Elder One would find them there in the snow. With Skyhold they had crumbling yet sturdy walls to hide behind. There was much work to be done.

No one noticed him as he slipped between the veil. It was easier to hide here. To hide between folds of the veil, to quiet his steps and breath as he helped. The fade leaked between the porous veil here. Slow and steady. Sometimes he could remember things from before.

Before…the stabbing pain and gasps. Sharp eyes pleading for merciful sleep. Dry tears and parched sobs. A silent call. Even in his pain he tried to console. Still with unnatural unrest. The Templars forgot and flitted around them. Some people saw him; others forgot.

The weary horror vanished.

Cole found his place with the sick and the dying. With loved ones that yet lived and brought them, mourning. Final wishes, final thoughts, and final greetings. Yet those alone, he reminded them of things before, of things passed. Burnt turnips like mother’s soup for the dying soldier that passed. The smell of daisies for the templar, haunted by the attack were replaced by memories of a field by Montsimmard. 

When their pains were eased he felt the older ones and the new ones. Plums for spiders, and webs for frenetic healers. Cheese for the mice so the cats would come, and leafy mints to make them dance and play. Laughs for the Cook made cooking easier for the scullery maids. The maids made cookies. He left the cookies for the Jenny in the tavern. 

She didn’t like him, but he felt her hurt and could aid to soothe the soured memories hidden away, but he kept his distance. She called him Creepy.

Some days, it was too much. So he sat at the stairs to rest, close enough to hear - to help but far enough to let them heal. The air in Skyhold filled him with life. It was easier to recover here than out there. The fade was closer. It felt like...home. He hid away until the Enchanter pointed him out to the Seeker. He should have remained unseen but now he stood out in their sight. Sharp, crisp, and grey.

“There. That’s the demon.”

He _was_ a demon. Or a spirit. He wasn’t sure. Sometimes he was a demon, when his friends wept; other times he was a spirit being there for those he heard. Everyone had hurts, others were just louder, urgent, immediate. Sometimes he had to prioritize. They clung to life, trying to stay. He made it okay for them to let go. Then there were others who reached for death that he kept them at bay. They would stay with the birds. Cole went through a lot of bread for him but he stayed. The birds liked Cole, especially the crows. Well one Crow didn’t.

When the birds were hard to see, the Herald was near. They approached, a heavy dark question on her tongue and in their stride. She wanted to understand, so he helped her.

The Herald wanted him to stay. He wanted to stay. There were so many people he could help. So many with swirling somber sadness that needed their hurts, to heal the scars, to hold onto, to feel whole. Others wanted it gone, so he made them forget. The Herald understand.

He wasn’t allowed to steal honey from the kitchens anymore. How else was he supposed to sweeten the Nightingale’s wine?

Cole perched on a scaffolding, one leg tucked and the other swinging. Refugees filtered through the gates. Cold, hungry. Easy hurts they can soothe themselves or the Sisters will help. Cole wasn’t interested in those, he closed his eyes and listened. They were stragglers. Those who escaped Haven but hadn't found where the sky was held back. A bull’s chargers returned. Memorials built - mourning and resources found -

He staggered forward when a fresh wave of pain, long and old. Aching, dripping blood and ichor. The veil whorled and its pores became gaping. There was crying - screaming - pleading for an end. A shivering crawling terror and hunger. Cole gasped as it rushed him. His throat tightened. A wretched stabbing pain washed over him. It choked and dried the air. Then… nothing. Quiet. The veil shifted, cringing and crackling and then soothed over. The quiet choked him. It reminded him - _No._

Left behind. Hidden. Starved. Left to die. _Haven._ Snow. Months. Alone. Forgotten. 

_No!_

Grim, Skinner, and Stitches hovered - protective. Bellowing betrayal with furrowed brows, Bull kept his distance. Guilt, squashed by loyalty and duty. _I was following orders._ Bull assured himself, but he looked back at the cart. A twist of knife the guilt was gone. He nodded reaffirmed in his actions, but tiny voices joined the others. _Was it right?_

Cole looked and **looked.**  Hidden beneath sheets, within a cart lay a wisp of a person. If he was _seeing_ he would have missed her. Bone thin, stretched grey skin, tufts of hair remained and bulging eyes. Yet she breathed. Shallow quick gasping breaths between cracked scarred lips. Weeping and leaking the fade wanted to swallow her up. Ready for her shade and the power of her memories.

She was dying. Cole knelt close. But she didn’t want to.


	4. Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING!!**  
>  Implied Past Suicide Attempt

Skinner stared at Dalish in front of her, watching closely as she watered down the broth even more.  She looked back questioning.  Skinner nodded.

“They’ll be nothing left of the broth if I water it down anymore.” Dalish grumbled.

“She has to keep it down.” Skinner hissed and leaned back as Dalish continued until she signaled. The broth was less broth and more stock flavored water that the girl would have to sip every two hours. Slowly they’d thicken over the first few days until she could take actual broth and then eventually solids. But that was a long way from now. For right now, they just needed to get something in her. She was fading fast after the soldiers nearly sent her into shock by giving her too much food.

Now they had to work doubly fast with the healers. Start off small and work their way up to normal food while getting them moving. A process Skinner was too familiar. Dalish didn’t want to know why. Though she could guess, given the tight look Skinner had that only made an appearance when she thought of the alienage and what the nobles used to do to the elves.

Dalish had never thought shems would treat their own like this. But then again it wasn’t a shem who ordered this. She looked up toward the platform atop the stairs overlooking the courtyard.

The Inquisitor hovered ahead, looking down into the courtyard at the makeshift infirmary, aware of the return of their guest.  A guest that had been conveniently left behind during the escape of Haven.

Quelling a shiver, Dalish turned away as the Nightingale strolled up behind the Inquisitor, calling the elf’s attention and drawing them away toward the War Room, or so she guessed.

Dalish never expected an elf to turn human levels of cruelty onto humans. Long ago she would have thought it appropriate but now. Now being privy to the horrors of its effect... the damage and scarring left behind - mentally and physically - she didn’t wish it on anyone. Which brought up another matter entirely, the Chief.

The Iron Bull had left the chargers at the infirmary, called away by one look from the Nightingale at their return. Initially she thought it was a secret meeting to be had, until Dalish spotted the Commander strolling after them and the Inquisitor as they drew into the Keep. A meeting that the chargers wouldn’t be privy too, well except for Krem.

Krem was speaking with the soldiers, far away from the infirmary about where the items they salvaged from Haven should go.  Many of the soldiers just did as he told, after nearly killing the girl by trying to feed her. Leave it to the Shems to further complicate the girl.

“Dalish, she’s awake.  Bring the broth.”  Stitches called from the tent closest to the fire.  She carried it in, Skinner following after her.  

With a wooden spoon Dalish tried to feed her but the broth dribbled out. “Come on.”  Dalish muttered beneath her breath.

Skinner grabbed the spoon from here. “Like this.” She trickled a few drops into the girl’s parched mouth and angled her head back so it would slid down her throat. Her grip far more gentle than Dalish had ever seen.

The travel from Haven to Skyhold had been harsh on the girl. They had given her nothing but hot tea and broth, the latter of which had been too much for her malnourished and shrunken stomach. They didn’t know how long she’d been without a proper meal but from the look of the Chantry’s dungeon remains where they found her, it had been several months.

Grim had been the one to find her. Whilst tracking bloody footprints, he’d come upon the remains of the Haven Chantry, buried in snow, debris, stones, and downed trees. It was precarious to venture further but the footprints led there, further into the Chantry and down where an injured wolf lay, half torn up.

That was all Grim had been able to signal about before he led Krem and the others there, where the scene of empty boxes, barrels, and the smell of months old frozen excrement were beginning to melt. Signs of someone living there led them to the passageway they had escaped from almost three months ago. Amidst the remains of boxes, dried deep mushroom, and the remains of several rats was a pale waif of a girl bundled in blankets, and every scrap of cloth and stuffed with crumpled papers.

They thought her dead until she gave one shuddering breath.

Stitches hadn’t been with them, but a meager field cleric used to patching up battle wounds not treating long term starvation, sores, and malnourishment. They almost killed her out of mercy until  Grim found the book. Her journal.

Over one hundred ninety entries.  At first they were detailed introspective accounts of her first few days after the avalanche. She detailed her efforts to find an escape route, and then the amount of food left behind.  She kept track of her stores and how long she estimated they would last her. Faint hope that maybe she would last for the Charger’s eventual return to Haven.

Though how she knew they would return was puzzling.

There were entries in between where she doubted they would return given what the Inquisitor had done to her.  Kept calling the Inquisitor a red hawk.  But those doubts were squashed with almost fervently written “They will come. They will come. I will make sure of it” in a different script.

Several entries after that, there were splotches of dark brown-red liquid as though splashed. A scribbled “I’m sorry.” was all that was written and then several blank pages. Then the entries began again.

There were two scripts, two sets of handwriting and yet only one person was found.

It was the soldiers who questioned whether putting her out of her misery was better. Skinner stopped all discussion on that. Grim followed suit with a grunt. The two of them became the girl’s — who they still didn’t know her name — protectors.  On the journey to Skyhold they combed through the book, to find anything more about her but the entries grew shorter, the script erratic and the styles melded until the second set was the most prominent.

There was more brownish red splotches along the edges and the script took on the same tone, as though they ran out of ink.

Krem confiscated the book when Grim spent a whole evening punching a tree inconsolable.

At Skyhold’s forward camp, the girl woke up enough to speak.  Iron Bull met up with them after returning from Crestwood with the Inquisitor.

Dalish will always remember the scream. The pleading sobbing no’s from the girl.  She hadn’t been able to move, too weak then but she made an effort — too much of an effort. Her arm broke, and her throat became raw and she spat blood, choking on it. Dalish had to cast a sleep spell on her.

Now she was unconscious and Bull was nowhere near. Dalish prepared another watered down broth, this time a bit thicker and some hot tea.

“When was the last time she went.” Skinner asked Stitches. Her voice even. Not angry, not sad - just numb.

“Not yet.” Stitches was mixing a special poultice for the sores on the girl’s back and legs. Once those healed, it may be easier for her to move. Help her build up her strength so she can walk again. Anything to ease the pain she was in. “There’s a bed pan beneath her cot.”

“Hmm.” Skinner nodded as she trickled more broth down. Every few hours someone had to feed her. Either broth or hot tea. At least for the first few days, increasing the thickness and meat content and sugar. The healers had their own patients, amputees and those injured in battle. This was different. The girl required constant care for at least a month and then a watcher to ensure there was no drastic measures taken by her hand.

“Dalish, give her a wash down when Skinner is done.” Stitches ordered. “Her injuries need to be cleaned before the poultice can be put on and bandaged.”

“I will help.” Skinner stated, arms folded as she set the bowl on the workspace. Her tone indicating there would be no fighting, not that anyone would. She fetched water.

“Skinner,” Dalish prodded her when she wouldn’t answer as they stripped the bandages off the girl’s arms.

“Hm?”

“Are you…”  Dalish looked down at the girl, who slumbered while they carefully removed her clothes. “You’ve been quiet. Is it because of her?”

“Yes.” Skinner’s reply was quick, terse but her hands remained gentle as they worked the makeshift cast off the girl. At Dalish’s continued stare, Skinner sighed. “The nobles in the alienage often withheld merchants from selling to us. Sometimes, we would go weeks without more than one meal. It resulted in some of our elders sacrificing their meals to the young.”

“Did it get this bad?” Dalish swallowed.

Skinner stared at the grey taut skin, mottled and splotched with bruises as they revealed her hands. Jagged scars of scratches covered across her arm.  They turned her arms and the dark deep red scar down her inner forearm had them both still.

Skinner remained silent. 

“She doesn’t want you to _see_.”

Dalish and Skinner jumped at the perched brown clothed figure on the barrel in the corner of the tent. His large hat covered his face but he looked up. Glistening blue eyes with wet tracks down his cheeks, matting his blonde hair in clumps.  

“Who are you!” Skinner grit her teeth, dagger already flashing as she stepped in front of the cot to hide the girl.

“I-” He choked on words as the girl stirred in the cot, shivering. “I’m Cole.” He huffed, strained as he wiped at his eyes wetting the shredded ends of his sleeves. “She doesn’t want you to see, she’s sorry. She made a mistake. She doesn’t want _anyone_ to see.” He pointed to her arms, shaking as more tears tracked down his cheeks and dribbled to his dirt covered shirt.

“I know you. You’re the Spirit the Inquisitor recruited.” Dalish held her hand out to push Skinner back, but she needn’t have as the other elf was covering the girl, ignoring Cole.

Cole blinked, causing droplets to fall off as he leaned forward. The tears disappeared mid-air, their purpose of expression void. “Yes.” He sighed, disappearing from his perch and then popping next to Dalish. Dalish had to hold her magic back as she hissed at him, wary of his presence.

“So the Inquisitor trusts you?” Skinner grit.  If the Inquisitor trusted him and ordered the girl’s treatment...

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” Cole’s pleading was warbled between held back sobs as he sniffed and leant over the blanket, staring at the girl. “Her name is Cosette.”

“You can hear her?” Skinner looked up.

“Yes.”

“Stop talking to it.” Dalish warned Skinner. “It’s a demon.”

“Just like you’re not a mage?” Skinner snapped back.

“No. I’m Cole.” Cole spoke up at the same time. Both elves looked at him, unnerved.

“If he can help us learn more about her?” Skinner looked at Cole for confirmation.  “Why not?”

“I don’t trust him.” Dalish muttered as Cole stepped around the bed. Her hand up, sparking a fire. It flared wildly and she yelped as it burned through her aura and singed her hand.

“Dalish!”  Skinner jumped and grabbed her hand.

“It’s just a burn.”

“But how, you never lose control."

“I know.” Dalish glared at Cole but he was now hovering over Cosette, fingers reaching out to trail just over the raised scars of her forearm. “Hey.”

“Forget.” He muttered once.

“Step away.”

“Forget,” It was twice now.

Dalish moved around, ignoring her pain and reached out to arcane push Cole but he looked up into her eyes.

“Forget,” thrice like a mantra and the veil shimmered. Dalish remained rooted in spot.

“What did you do?” Skinner wary, tried to poke Dalish to get her to react.

“I made her forget me.”

“Why?”

“She thinks I’m a demon, like the first of her clan.”

“Are you?”

“I used to be.”

“Used to be?” Skinner shifted, daggers heavy in her palm.

“I’m not anymore. If I do… If I hurt people again, they’ll stop me.”

“You hurt Dalish.”

“I tried to help.”

“You made her forget.”

“Only me. And…” Cole looked down. “You understood. She didn’t. She wanted to tell.”

“What?”

“The scars. Shame, weak, forgive. Forgive me _._ It hurt so much.” Cole knelt close to Cosette again. His eyes closed and he opened himself and **looked** _._ The veil howled, the fade tinted and blended with color. The world was vibrant and bright. A wispy veil pulled at Cosette, drawing her closer to the fade but parts of her clung to this side. Jagged writhing screams punctuated and stretched the veil. Seams unstitched and it gaped and gaped into a void.  

“Guilt?” Skinner asked.  Cole nodded.  “I won’t tell anyone.” She meant it.

“Don’t let anyone see.”

He was gone, whether he’d truly been there, Skinner wouldn’t know for sure. But she understood. Her fingers traced the faint faded markings of her own scars. Starvation had been common in the alienage, but captured and starved on purpose by the Nobles - was something else.

When Dalish snapped back, she had her warm the water again, but she warned to be careful with her magic. There was something _off_ around Cosette.

* * *

 

Cole hadn’t gone far. He was still there, watching - hovering. He couldn’t tear himself away from her. For every breath that wracked her chest, was a sob for him. Tears manifesting as he felt her pain for her. She had no tears available to shed but it hurt for her to not express it and so it pained him. It curled inside of him and festered until he sobbed, eyes red rimmed as they reset her bone and poultice and bandages once again covered her.

He remained longer than he should have. Yet if he should want to leave her side, he would only hear her. Her pain, her suffering was loud, drowning all others out - even his own.

His breath stuttered at the thought. Eyes shut, head ducked - he pressed his palms against his chest, heaving. He could have saved her. _He could have saved her._ Left behind. Waking alone in the dark — scared, isolated, alone —  _alone_. _Alone_. _Forgotten_. _Starved._ _Dead._

Cole breathed sharp. “NO!”  He cried and stumbled away. He wasn’t the same. He wasn’t.  He thought she would... He sobbed as she breathed. He couldn’t — couldn’t _._

He did this, he could have stopped this.

“Cole.” The bright spot stepped to him as he crouched against the stone walls of the Skyhold. “Are you okay?” The Inquisitor knelt.  Cole had to stop _seeing_ to see them.

“It hurts. She hurts.” He muttered.

“Who?” Ellana asked and he pointed toward the tent. “Oh…” Her shoulders slumped but she stepped closer. “How is she?”

Cole whimpered but he opened and **looked**. Only he gasped, back straight as the light cleared and the Inquisitor was no longer bright as the gaping veil swallowed it up. He could see - could hear and-

“You.” Cole’s mouth gaped open.

“Me?”

“You...don’t care.” He muttered. “You did this to her. You don’t care about her, about people.” He leapt to his feet and advanced. His friends ached wanting to weep.

“Cole. The Inquisition has done some things that might look-”

“NO!” Cole shouted. “You. Don’t. Care About. People!” His anger flared and for a moment, he almost reacted. Almost let his friends weep and sob like he wanted to. Instead, he stepped back. “Forget.”

“Cole I-” Ellana tried but a second later she didn’t know what she was saying.


	5. Medicine

“I’m sorry.”

Was the first thing she could comprehend with any level of consciousness. Certainly there was the comprehension of sounds and feelings. Liquid, warm and greasy down her throat. Sometimes it was sugary and sappy as it soothed like a balm. Then there was a tickle in her nose as tepid water rushed over her.  She was shivering, but she was always shivering.  She was trapped, buried in snow. But this was different.

It was pleasant, a relief, dream, wonder. _Too good._ She breathed deep, as deep as she could before it ached and rattled her ribs. She was coughing, straining but it calmed with a hand at her arm. Water alleviated much of her pains and discomfort as she rasped and her tongue swiped over her lips and it didn’t sting.

And for a moment, for a tiny fraction of a second she opened her eyes and flooded her sight. Where she expected darkness or shade or the low light of the tomb she existed in - she was shocked, enraptured by the brilliance of light and color before it blurred.

“No...” Her voice crackled as the color and clarity blended into itself and around. She could see color but no shapes. Mouth wide, she cursed herself.

_When your dreams are of some world that never was or some world that never will be, and you're happy again, then you'll have given up._

She would never give up.

It was the only thing that got her through it. Giving up was not an option. Giving up was not allowed. Giving up… giving up was-

“Letting go.” A voice whispered close with a warm breath. She shivered, body aching for more human contact. It disappeared only to return with a weight on her and the hand on her arm again. It seared against her, too warm, too sharp, too-

“Real.”

She rasped and coughed. A cloth pressed to her lips where warmth bled from her, then it soothed.  Another cloth — or perhaps the same — wiped against her eyes and it came away moist. Had she been crying?

“Yes.”

Weeks spent dry and too parched to cry, her ducts ached. It’d been weeks since she last cried. Weeks since she thought she could spare it and now, she could. A fresh wave of tears bubbled up behind her eyes, burning and wetting the crusts in her eyes. Tears, _real_ _tears._ Her nose tickled as snot built and for once in so long, she felt **normal**. She let the dam free, rejoicing in their appearance, in the presence of water. She could drown in it. The rag came and wiped at her eyes, her eyes wide and watching the blotchy white come in. Water pooling beneath her lids, snot covering her mouth. Her breath hitched-

_“I haven’t even pulled out the rag yet.”_

_“Please… please.”  She blubbered as she strained against the chains.  Her back pressed against the damp stone slab. “Please no more.” She sobbed._

_“Only if you tell me what you know about gaatlock." His voice rumbled._

_“I don’t!” Her voice wobbled and hiccuped as she tensed.  Red rimmed eyes wide as her neck pressed against her restraints to see but then her vision was filled with a white cloth that became damp and flooded with water and muffled screams._

She was yelling, screeching and sobbing as her body tensed and pulled away from the cloth pressing against her cheek.  The white of it drowned her vision and she couldn’t breathe. Her stomach convulsed, lungs straining at the memory of drowning while dry.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” The voice panicked and whined and then was gone.  Another set of hands pressed her down but she fought until she couldn’t. She was still, prone but aware and awake.

“Just breathe.” A deep unfamiliar voice but even and kind. Almost like **his** had been at first. His had been kind, understanding until it turned demanding, harsh, and cruel. “Come on, breathe.  Dalish, is there any spell-”

“I’m not a spirit healer, Stitch.”  A female voice quipped but something — some _thing_ loosened the restraints on keeping her prone.

“Skinner! Maybe she’ll know what to-”

“I’m here.”

“She just started screaming-”

“Sobbing, kept muttering she was drowning and it sounded-”

“-like she was.”

“Dalish put her to sleep.”

* * *

 

The next time she woke, she was alone with naught but a chill in the air. Familiar and dreadful, yet off. While not pressed against the stone floor.  Her fingers weren’t wrapped around her book. Instead they curled around a furred blanket. The light was low, a familiar setting of night. Light would reflect off the ice and snow down toward the cavern she lay in.

Taking stock, she spied the canvas of a tent, a box, and barrel. A bundle of clothes were atop the box, and a wooden bowl on the barrel.  The ground was not familiar iced stone, but dusty dirt that she spied over the cot.

_Where am I?_

“Skyhold.” The voice spoke from the dark. It wasn’t the familiar echoing tones of Wilson.

A rat had been trapped with her. She found the crumbled cheese, the half eaten moldy bread. It was eating into her stores, shortening her survivability. She had to kill it. It would be the freshest meat she’d have. Bugs were scarce and the worms had all but frozen that she turned into a mushy paste and boiled into a ration of protein. The rat would be a feast for a few days. She just had to catch it.

With cheese, a box, and a rope, it squeaked and squealed and when she tried to grab it, she saw its beady eyes staring.  It squirmed and writhed in her knobby grip. Its grime covered fur was soft and its body warm. It was bigger than the rats of home, the rats from long ago.

For a moment, she wondered if it would jump atop her head and make a feast of a meal out of the meager leftovers.

Then it bit her.

She slammed it’s head down repeatedly until it lay limp.

She kept its skull and named it Wilson. A dark humor that only she took comfort in, a comfort she mourned.

“Sky-” she tried to speak but couldn’t. Her throat was dry. When had that been noteworthy? Her throat had always been dry, would always be dry. When had it been moist.

“Here.” A spoon came out of the darkness and the figure with it.

The low light reflected off the swell of water, tantalizing. She could remember when she felt thirsty, knew she should be feeling it now, knew the water was necessary.  But why?

“I’m here to help.”

> The little room she sat in had no windows or ventilation, barring of course the crack under the door where vermin slipped through. It was also the only source of light. The only time the door opened was when they brought her meals. But this time it opened and a large horned shadow blocked most of the light, until it- he pulled a torch forward.
> 
> Squinting until her vision adjusted, she gaped. “Bull?”
> 
> “So Red wasn’t lying.” Iron Bull gave her an apprehensive smile.
> 
> “About what?”
> 
> “That you’d know who I am.”
> 
> “I don’t think Sister Nightingale ever truly lies.” Cosette let out a cruel laugh. This was Iron Bull. No, The Iron Bull. “It’s nice to meet you, **the** Iron Bull. I’m Cosette.”
> 
> He was all smiles at the emphasis on the article. ”Come on, I’m sure you’re sick of this room.”
> 
> “A little.” Cosette struggled to her feet, but Bull gripped her upper arm. He was huge, tall, and wide. While there was little definition, she had no doubt of the layers upon layers of pure brawn and muscle. It was almost frightening to be next to him, until she remembered the Chargers. Bull would never hurt anyone. He cared too much. “Thanks.”
> 
> “ **I’m here to help.** "

"Why?” While too exhausted to feel terror and fright, she was wary and it showed. She could feel her thirst returning, but she’d fought it back before and she can do it again.

The figure shuffled their feet before the spoon was retracted. She regretted it, instantly. Her tongue heavy and dry dragged over her cracked lips.

“I help people. You need to drink, the healers say you need to every few hours. The apprentice was exhausted with too many questions. They fell asleep. I can help.”

She couldn’t really see them as they spoke but their words were simple and genuine. She felt like she could trust them. But Cosette had that feeling before. With Lavellan, Leliana, and Iron Bull.

 _What’s one more?_ _What could they possibly do more to me? I can't even fight._

“Ok.” Numb and defeated, she lowered her chin and waited for the spoon to return. If it was poison, she would find out soon enough. Maybe, this was how it would end.

At first she let it wet her lips until it slipped past and grazed over her tongue. She couldn't taste it. Not at first. But as it traveled down her tongue, the subtle hints of savory had her lapping at the dip in the spoon. It disappeared and came back again as her need for more drew energy from her.  Slowly, she felt more awake as she drank. Her throat became hydrated. For however long, she drank until it hurt her stomach.

They went to pull away the spoon before she finished but she reached out and gripped their wrist. They gasped and  stiffened at her touch stuck in place as she drank the last few sips from the spoon.

A faint whine had her angle her head up to see a panicked stricken face shrouded under a large floppy hat. Used to low lighting she could make out his physical features. Lanky white hair stood out, but his face was expressive. He stared where her hand touched the bare flesh of his wrist.  _Cole._  

She let go. He shuffled a safe distance away.

“Sorry.” She croaked. Silence filled the space between them as he stood there, waiting. For what? Who knew.  The sense of fullness made her eyelids heavy. She didn’t want to sleep, not right then. Questions littered her mind. They would have to wait.

She dozed off.

While someone had woken her again to drink more watered down broth, she couldn’t remember it fully, just the faint wisps of memories as she became full and sleepy.

It was like this for a long time. The pale blonde figure always made his reappearance in the dark, only to help her drink.

Cosette didn’t like it. She wouldn’t be fooled again.

> “ **I** **’m here to help.** " His single eye blinked, but Cosette knew with the smirk and smile he meant it as a wink.
> 
> They ventured across the corridor to one of the nicer cells, Bull had to duck down to fit inside the open door. Cosette’s feet were bare against the cold stone but warmed on the area rug in the cell. Bull gestured to the cot where a mattress was. The room was lined in bookshelves. There was a table with a bowl full of hot thick stew and a plate of fresh bread and grapes.  
> 
> Her stomach grumbled, loud and aching. She looked at Bull, questioning.
> 
> “Go on.” He gestured. She needed no other encouragement before she was slurping up the stew and ripping a hunk of bread off and chewing on grapes with abandon. She could remember the last time she had such a full meal. It’d been at Soldier’s Peak, months before the Breach and even longer from that moment.
> 
> “Thank-” She coughed and nearly choked. Bull slapped her back and then handed her a goblet filled with ale where she drank. “Thank you.”
> 
> “Figured you could use a good meal.” He sat across from her on the chaise. He seemed content to watch her eat, lounging as she did. Cosette held the bowl out.
> 
> “D-do you want some?”
> 
> “Nah. I’m good.”
> 
> Cosette stilled and looked down at the bowl again. She stared at Bull and put it down. She gulped. This was Iron Bull afterall, spy for the Qun. Hissrad. He was here for something, for information. He knew she knew, with the way he smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile but an ‘Ah we’re on the same page’ sort of smile.
> 
> “What was in it?” She whispered.
> 
> Bull shrugged. "Ram meat, turnips, onions..."
> 
> “What was in the stew…” She bit her lip, unsure but wanting to convey she knew more. “Hissrad?”  That got his attention. Though not what she expected. She expected him to grow serious instead he laughed.
> 
> “Amazing. So you know Qunlat?”
> 
> “I don’t.”
> 
> “Then where’d you learn that word?” His entire body shifted forward, one elbow on his knee. The cast of light left his sighted side cloaked in shadows.
> 
> “It’s your name. Your role in the Ben Hassrath.”  She muttered, but no longer touching the stew. She did however finger a grape.
> 
> “So Red told you that.” He nodded.
> 
> “Sister Nightingale didn’t tell me anything. I-I...Sh--she..” Cosette flinched, remembering metal forceps when she wouldn’t comply.  She swallowed. “She made me tell her about you.” Cosette sniffed.
> 
> “Made you?” His voice raised with interest in the same way the Sister’s would. Their tone curious because she had slipped up and then the questions would follow.
> 
> “I-I want to go back to my cell.” Cosette stood up and walked to the door, to exit but his hand shot out and gripped her wrist tight. Not painful but uncomfortable. She flinched and tried to wrench free but his grip grew tighter and he yanked her toward him. He trapped her between his knees. Even sitting down, he still towered over her and he looked her over. His finger pushed at the bandages covering her hands.
> 
> “How did she make you?” His voice grumbled, low with a threat.
> 
> “I-I-” Her voice quivered.
> 
> “What are these bandages for?” He pressed.
> 
> Cosette pulled at her hands, to free herself. He held fast.
> 
> “What did she do to you?” He lowered his voice and pressed his lips against her ear.
> 
> Cosette broke, sniffling as she remembered the forceps, the twist of nail and bone clasped tightly in metal. She began to blubber and leaned away from him, her bandaged hands brought up to show him but he got one flash of scarred finger tips and missing finger nails before he put her hands down and drew her close as she broke down into tears.
> 
> “Aww, shh.” He cooed, one hand ran down her hair.  Cosette shivered as she dropped against him, her face in the crook of his neck as she let out a tiny whimpering sob. “Tell me what she did.”
> 
> She shook her head, not wanting to. He respected that and let her cry there until she was settled. When she was done, he was standing up and leaving.
> 
> “Wha… where are you going?”
> 
> “I only had an hour with you. You’ve got to go back.”
> 
> “What?! But... no. I…” Cosette panicked and then looked at the food still yet to be eaten.
> 
> He gave a low chuckle. “You can take that back to the cell with you.”
> 
> When she was alone in her cell, she replayed the encounter. The feeling of skin against hers, to be in contact with someone - anyone. She slept with her hand against her cheek, emulating the feel. But it wasn’t the same.

* * *

 

“You say you found her like this?” The Inquisition surgeon was a pale cream skinned woman with a severe expression and even more severe temperament. Doctor Galen touched the patient's clammy forehead.  The patient’s gray and pallid complexion was worrisome and Galen’s brows furrowed.

“Aye.” Stitches spoke up as he shifted in place.

“Why was I not alerted to her condition immediately upon her arrival?” Galen turned from the cot the patient lay in and rummaged around on the workspace for a glass bottle.

“We didn’t think the Inquisition trustworthy to handle her.” Stitches grunted, that gave the Doctor pause as she looked at him with an accusation but she brushed it off.  “I’ve already tested her fluids. She’s deficit in all humors.”

“What would a field medic know of humors?” Galen scoffed as she pricked the patient and collected the sludge of blood.

“I wasn’t always a field medic.” He kept his anger in check as he bandaged the prick. Not that the poor girl would bleed much now. She still wasn’t getting enough fluids. “I was a doctor, same as you, before the Blight.” Stitches explained.

“Not the same as me, because I _remained_ a doctor.” Galen muttered.

“I would have liked to have remained a doctor, but they needed soldiers. You can be just as useful as a field medic trained soldier.” Stitches snapped.

“While I appreciate you had to take up arms, we are no longer fighting a Blight.” Galen snapped back. “This is no victim of the taint. This is a matter of nutrition and health. It is not a situation where you can slap on a bandage and have her drink an elfroot potion and she’ll keep going. There has been prolonged neglect. This requires medicinal healing, this requires _science._ She’s been starved, not stabbed.”

“Yes. As I am intimately aware of. Especially as it was on the orders of the Inquisitor. If you’ll note, she shouldn’t be bled.” Stitches growled, but he didn’t stop the surgeon from collecting the blood.

“The Inquisitor?” Galen looked up shocked, faltering for a moment and then shook her head as she set the bottle down to let the fluids rest, allowing it to separate into the four fluids (blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phelgm). “That… does not sound like Inquisitor.”

“Probably because she wasn’t the inquisitor then.” Stitches crossed his arms. “She was the Herald.”

Galen shook her head but moved around the small workspace and boiled a pot of water. She wiped at Cosette’s brow, noting the collection down. “She has a fever. She’ll need to eat Gurgut liver broth.”

“And where do you suppose we can get that?” Stitches asked but made note of it.

“Tell Ser Draman at Requisitions.”

“Ser Draman, not Ser Morris?”

“Draman handles all supplies needed for the Infirmary. She is also the one designing our new Infirmary ward so she would have the best access to imports.” Galen explained as she added bits of elfroot, embrium, and spindelweed to the concentrator agent.  “Tell her I’ll need my usual supplies replenished, as well.” Galen fluttered around inside the tent. She added the whole concoction into the pot of boiling water. She stirred exactly thirty-nine times.  

Stitches was more than fine being slotted to a messenger boy for the moment, if it meant the girl would get proper care.  He only brought the surgeon in because he had no expertise with starvation victims. Skinner had more experience with that, but she only knew so much and she’d been sent off with the other Chargers.

For days he’d done his best.  The last time he treated someone with this level of neglect, it was the wasting illness. They did not last long. It was a miracle the girl had survived as long as she had despite all signs to the contrary.  He’d been checking her fluids again when he noticed the sludge like quality despite all measures of reintroducing water and broth to her.  The broth was made of ram liver, and while adequately helping her, it would have been better with Gurgut liver. At least then it would help replenish the levels of her humors.

Stitches shook his head.  He’d spent too long as a field medic. This was why he approached the surgeon.  He was ill-equipped. It was a tough blow for him to admit that.

He was a field medic now because it was needed. Before the Inquisition he was the Chargers’ doctor, but with the Breach he once again served on the battlefield as a soldier and a medic. Often times there wasn’t enough time or resources to have a dedicated Doctor. His specialty lay in plague illnesses, as many doctors were. But he had taken patients afflicted with all manner of illnesses.

After returning, and filling out in triplicate the requisitions orders, he found the Surgeon pacing back and forth outside of the tent, muttering to herself.

“Ser!” She yelped upon his return. “I require a look at my books. She’s woken - if briefly. But she will not drink and I shan’t force any medicine on any patient.” Galen stated and handed him a small potion bottle.

“So you want me to force her to drink it?”

“Yes. Precisely.” Galen patted his arm as though he were an imbecile who just figured it out and rushed off.

He would have responded back but movement out of the corner of his eye had him pause. _She won’t drink it unless you tell her what’s in it._ He blinked as the thought came to him, as though someone had told him yet there was no one. He looked around him, baffled before continuing into the tent.

The girl was awake, but she was huddled into the corner, her eyes drooping as she tried to stay awake.

Clearing his throat, she jolted. “Apologies, I’m-”

“Stitches.” She gave him a wide-eyed stare.

He paused as he let the tent flap drop behind him. “Yes...did the doctor-”

“Healer of th-the...the B-Bu-” Her lip quivered and she looked around, body shaking. “The Chargers.” She managed.

“How did you-”

“I know a lot of things.” She responded and after one shaky breath. “Please....don’t hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m a healer. I took an oath to help-”

“Help?” She squinted. “He said that. He said that a lot.” Cosette gave a low laugh. “He _helped_ so much.”

“Who is he?” Stitches had a suspicion who it was, if only because he’d read the book. It was necessary to understand the severity of Cosette’s physical and mental state. But it was one thing to read it from a book, and another to hear it from her directly.

“Your boss _._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits: "When your dreams are of some world that never was or some world that never will be, and you're happy again, then you'll have given up." Is a quote from The Road by Cormac McCarthy.


	6. Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING** : Referenced Torture

Shadows painted across the towers and ramparts of Skyhold as the sun and moons slept. The vision of colors muted, save for the bright lit braziers to provide light in the dark hushed world. Though in the distance the scar of the breach still cast it’s iridescent light. It was a faint memory - for now. Cole knew that.

He knew that only because _she_ knew that. While she slumbered she mumbled and grumbled secrets of things not yet passed. He kept them quiet, kept them safe behind his lips and hers. _Keep it secret, keep it safe._

The soldiers patrolled the ramparts as they did every night. There were only a few lanterns lit in the windows of the towers. The Commander, the Spymaster, and the Ambassador’s were always lit until late. He waited until those were dashed, waiting until the feel of their hurts were quelled to sleep. Then he moved. He had until the sun woke when they would rise again.

Stepping along the edge of the veil, he pulled himself through the walls and under until he found himself deep in the bowels of Skyhold. Lower than even the Undercroft. The room had ten columns, a large rug, and a sealed vault. Cole walked the few steps toward the vault and veered into the side hallway.

He came to a hault, as he eyed the Templar that blocked the door. For a brief moment of panic, Cole wondered if he could see him. He kept his head down, peering from under the brim of his hat but the Templar did nothing but stare.

 _He can’t see me._ Cole stepped to the side of him, watching as the Templar gave an exasperated sigh and turned toward the door.

“Alexius.”  He knocked on the wooden door. “It’s time to return to your cell.”

Cole waited as the the door opened and Gereon Alexius came out, his face drooped and shoulders slumped.  Behind him was the only room in which he was allowed to study magical theory to further the Inquisition’s goal. His sentence as decreed by Inquisitor Lavellan.

“Of course. May I take a book with me?” Alexius droned softly.

The templar gave a sigh. “Be quick about it.”

Alexius slipped back into the room. Cole slipped in after him, letting the door shut as Alexius rummaged on the singular desk.

There were a total of fourteen high reaching bookshelves.  Four were along the small hallway that led to the circular chamber where books piled high, and papers littered the desk and a single mage lantern hung in the air.  The room was cold and dark, but it was at least dry. A vast improvement to the cells of Haven.

Gereon shuffled his feet as he picked one book out of the shelf on theoretical regeneration potions. Paired with his research with Corypheus, he was working on a technique to increase the speed in which one can attack while recovering stamina.

He had much more reading to do, techniques to practice. But for now, a bit of light reading would do, even if it was only until he slept.

It was a begrudging existence.

He used a little magic to turn out the light, but paused when a ripple behind him had him whip around, expecting the Templar to yell at him for using magic. Instead he came face to face with a young man in what amounted to rags.

Using what little magic he dared, he pulled a shield up over himself as he stared at the being. He’d heard no approach, no breath from him and yet he stood there. His head angled up to meet his gaze.

He pressed a finger to his lips. “I’m Cole.”

Gereon had heard the name, mentioned by Dorian when his apprentice visited.  A demon - no a spirit the Inquisitor let in. His guard was up as he considered the demon.

“No. You are a demon. I will not fall for any tricks. I am not so desperate to have called you here.” Gereon squinted as he backed away.

“I’m not here for you.” Cole muttered low but angled his head as though listening. “Should have been there. Too much work to be done, just a breakthrough away.  Tevinter needs this, to defend against the invasion. Our sons - daughters-”

“Kindly stay out of my head, demon.” Gereon hissed. “Templar! There is an intruder!”

“He can’t see me.” Cole whispered even as the door opened.

“What intruder?” The Templar gruffed. “Find your book?”

Gereon glared at Cole but nodded, as he stepped around him to leave.

Cole followed after Gereon, careful of the Templar. Gereon was aware of him as he was led back to his cell, robes drawn close but they did little to stave off the cold the deeper into Skyhold they went. He wouldn’t complain. He deserved the cold, craved it. Perhaps he would become ill and waste away down here. Perhaps then he could pay his penance for not being there when he should have been. If he’d been there-

“The carriage stopped, the driver’s screams echoed.  Runes only lasted so long before they were on them. Shields up.  Mine weren’t strong enough.   _Felix, stay back. It’s too dangerous._ Mother swears, magic pooling around her as she fights them off, but the hurlocks are too many. ” Cole whispered as Gereon walked. Each word appeared to slide right over him.

It was silent, even as the Templar locked Gereon in his cell. The Warden of Skyhold’s Prison left after activating the runes on the cell door, to keep magic from breaking any structural barriers. It was Templar magic used to keep mages locked in the circles.

Cole’s voice lowered. “ _I can wield a sword as good as your staff._  Fast, crunching. They had no mercy, no thought as she screamed. All her power, all her mana. She fell, protecting me but the blood. It splattered.”

“If you’re done.” Gereon snapped into the dark. He knew what it’d been like. He didn’t need a demon bringing back those memories. He should have been there. _He should have done more._

“Even if you had, you would be blighted too.” Cole offered. “You would have died.”

“The better then for me.” Gereon snapped. “Better for me to have died alongside my wife, better for me to have died along side my son. _My son._  Either, just… if I hadn’t been so-” Gereon took a sharp breath and scowled. “Be gone demon. I have nothing to bargain with you.” Cole’s stare unnerved him, so he turned away from him. The rush of the falls beyond the main prison was a comfort as he ignored Cole. For minutes, he thought him gone.

“I’m not here to bargain.” Cole whispered in close proximity to the cell bars.

“Did the Inquisitor send you to torment me? It is not enough to be shackled and bound, but I must have her pet demon here?”

Cole frowned. “I’m here to help-”

“You do not fool me, demon. I have passed my harrowing and have dealt with stronger beings of the Fade than you.  I have uncovered the secret to manipulating time, you do not frighten me and cannot help me.” Gereon snapped. “Leave me.”

“No.” Cole uttered softly. He didn’t like Gereon, for what he almost did to the rebel mages.  Almost put them through, but he hadn’t got the chance to enslave them. But he remembered the hurt that swirled around the Inquisitor and Dorian when they spoke of the future, of the strange red distorted future where they did not exist. It ached like a wide puncture and made the Inquisitor rash.

None of this is why he was here. No.

“I’m not here to help you. I’m here to help Cosette.”

Gereon growled and tossed a fireball at the cell bars.  It dissipated on impact.

“You know nothing of that girl.” He hissed, angry more than ever. His disdain and hatred for the Inquisitor had only grown but what was he to do? The Southern Thedosian Templars were unlike the Templars of Tevinter. They were more akin to the magekillers, but worse.  

The girl in the cell next to his in the Haven Chantry. He’d been there with her at her very worst. She reminded him of Felix when the blight sickness was at it’s peek. Ill, weak, and needed constant care to ensure she ate. Her body was frail, starved like so many slaves who had been mistreated by their masters in the Imperium. A practice he detested but could do little about.

 

* * *

 

**Haven**

Four Months Ago

 

Gereon sat in his cell as the iron bars clanged.

“There are Templars stationed in this Chantry. Real templars, so don’t even think of attempting an escape, Tevinter” The guard warned with a sneer, walking away with a spat.

After his failure in Redcliffe, he’d been held and transported in the company of Southern Templars. Escaping was not only not an option, but a death wish. Contrary to his appearance he had neither. He was merely waiting for his chance. Hopefully the last of his compatriots in the Imperium would see to this gross injustice was fixed. He would be free from this upstart Inquisition and take Felix away, far from the Elder One’s wrath.

But where? He had to think. He may have given up, but he would not give up on Felix or the last moments he could spend with him. Felix had his powders, he would be fine. Gereon told himself this over and over as he thought over who in the Imperium he could contact. So incensed with his thoughts, he barely noticed the simple tray of bread and cheese left for him, or the goblet of ale.

No it was when the door swung open and deafening steps were heard that he jumped.

A hulking Qunari strode across the dungeon. For a horrified moment, Gereon almost yelped, his hands ready with a charge to defend himself but not only did the oxman not notice him, he went to another cell and threw open the door, where a small waifish wisp of a girl was hefted up by the savage beast and carried out with little protest.

“Maker…” He gaped as the girl finally woke only to give a strangled sob, her arms flailed as though to fight before the Qunari was out of sight.  In the distance another door swung open and was slammed shut.

It was a quiet heavy moment where there was naught but silence.

A scream, jolted Gereon to stare at the sole door.  Muffled sobs and a roaring scream came down the dungeon, “Who is the elder one?”  Followed by a shrieked “I don’t know!” over and over before it went silent. For hours the dungeon was peppered by the wails. When it was silent for too long, he wondered what had happened. Until the door swung open and the girl was dragged in before she was dropped on the same bedroll she’d been laying on and a chain shackled to her feet. Her frame disappeared beneath the blanket they threw over her.

They were alone.  

Was this a scare tactic? Gereon watched the girl while sipping at the dismal ale.

Why else would they send an oxmen in?  Gereon glowered at the girl. This was all a farce. It had to be. This… Inquisition wouldn’t torture young girls. Or, at least he didn’t think so. None of the reports the scouts sent said anything about this.

Why were they asking who the Elder One was? Was she like Calpernia? A former slave. He had only met a few of the Elder One’s generals. Calpernia, Samson, Erimond and Therin. He knew there were others.

Gereon looked at the cell, the girl was unmoving save for the rise and fall of her labored breaths. He shuffled close to the bars and took stock of her. Her hair long but straw yellow with sickness toward the roots and black at the ends, yet parts of it clumped in dark blood. Her skin gray, and bones sharp against her skin. He could see the bulge of her spine in the back of her neck.

This could not be a scare tactic. Though he would not put it past the Qunari. Instead, this looked long term. Long term interrogations with repercussions if she did not speak. The Imperium had employed similar tactics for spies.

Was she a spy?

Would this befall him if he did not cooperate?

She didn’t move, and Gereon looked away. He didn’t have time for this. He reminded himself. He had to find a way out and to Felix. That is what was most important.

“Wake up.” A boot nudged his thigh and Gereon woke with a groan. His back ached as he sat up from the cell’s meager bedroll. The guard dropped a bowl of porridge. “Eat quickly, you have a visitor.”

He’d not even known when he’d fallen asleep but he ate the bland porridge quick as he could before the guard escorted him toward another cell. This one with more proper accommodations for a prisoner such as him. Book filled shelves, a proper chaise and cot with a feathered mattress.  It’s a pity it wouldn’t be permanent. He made himself at home on the mattress, if only to ease the pain in his back from sleeping on the floor. It was only for a few moments when the cell door opened.

“Dorian?” Gereon hadn’t expected his apprentice to show himself so soon.  

“Alexius.” He shifted. “May I-”

“By all means, Dorian.” Gereon gestured grandly to the chaise. “Have a seat.”

Dorian glanced off to the side for confirmation before he entered the cell. The boy - no man had always been able to attract all gazes toward himself. That was not wholly because of his looks, the young man before him had always been bright. He’d seen it in him from many years ago. Part of the reason why he had taken him on as an apprentice. The other part was, well let us just say Senior Pavus had certain sway with the Magisterium with regard to refunding the circles toward more research into innovative magics.

Nevertheless, he never regretted taking Dorian on. It was a delight and a vast improvement. Even when his research turned toward more recent matters.

Dorian was quiet as he examined the books on display. Gereon gave a cursory glance, a few titles stuck out - merely for the Andrastian Chantry banning them. Curious that the Inquisition would have them here.

“And here I thought the Andrastian Chantry had all but erased Sister Laudine’s contributions to Orlesian gossip.” Dorian dropped the book back on the table with a smirk.

“Only in so far as it is convenient.” Gereon added. “The Andrastian Chantry is rife with hypocrisy and censure.”

Dorian gave a huff of mild amusement before he took a slow steady breath. “I have arranged for your parole.”

“Parole?” Gereon did not show interest, despite the contrary.

“It is conditional.”

Gereon leaned forward, with a narrowed gaze. “I assume I am to fight for the Inquisition? Offer up the techniques for time-altering magics?” It would be the natural course of action.

“No. The Herald wants nothing more than those magics to be destroyed and forgotten.”

“That’s surprising, considering how her people crave to preserve all they can.” Gereon scoffed. “Though perhaps it is precisely this reaction that caused _their_ history to be lost.”  

Dorian said nothing, merely waited for Gereon to finish. “You’re to offer any intelligence you have about the Venatori, their movements, members, and trade routes.”

Alexius gave a nod of confirmation. “There’s thousands of years worth of knowledge on them. I can consult the Grand Archivist on the matter.”

“And…”

Gereon’s eyes closed, fearing Dorian’s next words.

“The Elder One.”

“No.” Was his immediate reaction. “Absolutely not.”

“Alexius, be reasonable.”

“You be reasonable.” Gereon snapped. “If I reveal even an iota of information about the Elder One, he’ll hurt _Felix_.” The affirmation gave Dorian pause, a flinch at the name. “Worse than just for my own failure, but for my breach of loyalty.” Gereon explained with vagueness.  He didn’t dare to bring to light the Elder One’s true abilities and what he could do to anyone afflicted with the blight sickness. He shuddered at the thought. He at least wanted Felix to pass with his mind still his own.

“I understand your concern, but Felix has already left to return to Imperium. He’ll be safe.” Dorian assured him.

Alexius was not so easily made complacent, not with what he knew of the Elder One. “He won’t be.”

Dorian sighed whilst rubbing his brow. He gazed slowly up at Gereon.

“Alexius.”  He spoke slowly. “You’re not their only informant. This will be your only chance to get out. Have you considered what your life will be like? Living in this...” Dorian gestured around them. “Drudgery of a cell.”

Gereon leveled a glare. His apprentice could be incredibly naive at times.  

“They have another prisoner.”

Alexius gave pause as he weighed the information before he kept silent.

“One who knows the Elder One’s name, his motives, and potentially his next movement.”

“So what do they need me for?”

“They want to corroborate her information.”

Yet still, he said nothing.

“They want his name.”

“I never knew his name.” Gereon spoke soft. “I only knew him as the Elder One.” He spoke stiffly.  “If that is all, I wish to sleep now.”

When Dorian left and the sound of his footsteps had dispersed from the dungeons, Alexius was returned to his cell, besides the girl.

She was awake, sipping at the small cup of ale in her cell. She lowered it when he sat, eyes wide as she met his gaze. Her mouth open wide in what appeared to be shock. Her shoulders raised, chest heaved with a breath to speak.

“If you are a spy, then the Elder One will punish his dissenters. Just as he will me.  You’ve _earned_ your treatment and you will suffer worse at his hand. I have no further words for you.” Gereon snapped to her before laying down far from the side of his cell that met hers.

She never spoke. Whatever words she’d been about to utter died in her throat. Her eyes vacant as she slumped down and nibbled on the bits of cheese she had.

It was silent between them for three days. In those three days he worked out who he would have to write to ensure Felix’s safety now that he was no longer there. His own presence would be better but second best would do for now.

There was Tilani he could send word to but she was more likely to agree with Dorian on what he should do, nevermind the fact he’d introduced the two. He had delegated Lucanus to the Western Approach in search of a time altering relic his research had found. While Servis would jump at the chance for the Alexius name to owe him, he too was dispatched to the Approach - though for the much more inane reason as trade.

“I’m not a spy.”

Gereon blinked. He’d nearly all but forgotten the girl’s existence. She was quiet and remained so. He hadn’t even heard her eat - though he had paid her little attention, only noticing when she slept. Otherwise she only rose once or twice to pace around her cell in small circles. An action he thought foolhardy.

“I’m _not_ a spy. So you know.” She added with confidence, her gaze once again wide eyed. If not for her rounded ears, he would have thought her elfish with their size.

“Then why do they pepper you with questions?”

“Because I have information about the Conductor.” Her gaze was unflinching, though her body strained to keep steady.

“The Conductor?” Gereon whispered, horror as he checked to ensure the guards were nowhere near.

“I won’t tell them. They can’t know. Not yet. Not until it is necessary.” She whispered back, body shifting as she stretched her legs forward. Her bandaged hands reached toward her toes, legs quivering with the effort.

“Foolish girl.”

He dismissed her, again until the savage beast came for her. She was gone for a whole day. The screams, the questions, he could not make out but it was the silence that gave him pause.

Until sound of banging and pleas echoed down the hall. He couldn’t sleep but they kept her there for two more days.

They returned her, dropping her and chaining her. For three more blessed days it was quiet. He did note when she woke, drinking, eating when she could. Her body grew progressively paler and worse. Especially at the sharp misaligned shape of her left shoulder. She hugged it to herself and did her movements around the cell as usual. Slower now, but she did them, walking in circles, squatting until she was exhausted before stretching her fingers to her toes.

They took her again. Screams and pleading followed.

It was like this for weeks. They never spoke and he mulled over the strength of the bars and the adequate strength of a spell needed to break or melt it without causing himself damage, when he noted the silence.  A week he’d spent alone. A week of silence. A week of solitude save for the guards.

They returned her almost on hushed feet.  She was dripping and wet and they set her down as haphazardly as they always did. The chain clacked on.

For the first few hours he knew she would be sleeping, but after a day and no movement from her, he grew worried. Marginally. It had been a week. What they must have done to her.

Gereon looked at her form, staring. She still hadn’t moved. “Girl.” He called.

No response.

He shifted to the bars.  Perhaps she had died. Oh how he would be blessed with silence again. He could not see her well in the low light and cast a glow orb only to gasp.

What little yellow of her hair was drenched in blood. The sheet that covered her was also wet.  And her face, was blue, bordering on purple. His breath caught as he watched her suffocate, only for her chest to expand with a faint staggered gasp.

Felix sounded like that when the sickness fainted him. Felix would turn those colors, in pain as he fought off the fainting spell and coughed.  The powders would revitalize his lungs and he could breathe again. The blight had targeted his breathe and he would faint and be incapable of breath for minutes at a time.

But as the girl took a breath, he felt a moment of relief. She lived still- The thought stopped as her face became blue again. His chest clenched as finally her chest expanded and her grayish complexion returned only for it to stopper again.

“Maker!” He reached as far as he could into her cell and dragged her over. His hands flaring with a drying spell on the sheet and clothes, but it wasn’t enough. Her body lay prone and he propped her up against the bars.

Diagnostics spells he had learned long ago spilled from his hands as he found the source of her problem. The Imperium had made great advances in medical magic but it was not his specialty, but he had learned so much and more for Felix.  His hand hovered where he could reach.

Lung collapsed. Shoulder dislocated. Blood like sludge. Fingernails and toenails missing. Multiple lacerations. Concussion. Infection in her remaining lung. Acute Arrhythmia.

He cursed the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Spellweaver for the idea of Alexius wanting Felix to be of his own mind when he dies and Alexius learning medicinal magics for Felix.   
> Chapter title by LonelyAgain.


	7. Provident

Loose and undone, Cole snapped at the laces as he popped into existence in the library tower. “Tie!” He whined, even when he stomped his foot they begrudgingly didn’t. “Tie or I will cut you off.” He threatened. They flared alive and twisted into a neat, if rushed, bow. Cole sighed looking to make sure no one had seen him.

He should have checked before, especially as he slid his friends into their sheaths.  Dark wet blood stained them. He would have to clean them.

There were shadows in the hold. Sneaking. Silent. Slithering. He only caught them when they got too near, when they slipped up.

> “Existence is a choice.” The hooded elf whispered as he prowled closer to Cosette. It blinked itself awake but its gaze held no fear as it became aware. The elf had read his objective and the reports. The bas should not be aware of much in its state.  “Suffering is a choice. Why do you choose to exist if you suffer?”  He wanted to understand, wanted it to understand - it could choose to come willingly.
> 
> “Why do you?” It asked.
> 
> “I do not suffer for I exist for the Qun.” The elf’s hand became heavy with a dagger.
> 
> “Cogito ergo sum.” It muttered, watching the dagger come closer. “I think, therefore I exist.” The assassin halted.
> 
> “You think because you exist.”
> 
> “Do you? Do animals? How does one know they exist unless they think first?” Cosette stared him down. The corner of her eye picked up a pale figure growing closer.  “It is like asking which came first. The dragon or the egg? Did thought come first? Or existence. Furthermore by your earlier logic, if existence is a choice and suffering is a choice.  Does that mean existence is suffering?” She spoke. “To exist, is to **suffer**.”
> 
> The elf gave pause at that. Her ramblings were mad. But at the same time, the held a morsel of reflection.
> 
> “Shok ebasit hissra.” She began to recite the Qun. The elf said nothing, merely watched as she fumbled over the words, - her pronunciation near incomprehensible.  Her gaze raised as she recalled. “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. The sea may be changeless, but if you enter it - you must struggle to remain afloat - otherwise you sink. You sink and you drown. If you do not struggle, you will die in the sea - in the world.”
> 
> “If you do not struggle - do not suffer, you don’t learn, you gain no wisdom. There is wisdom in the knowledge of the complex - is there not?”
> 
> “You have studied the Qun?” The elf asked, stepping to her.
> 
> “Only a few verses.”
> 
> “Then you do not know of the full breadth of its teachings. The Tamassarans will-“ The assassin gasped as a knife punctured through from behind.
> 
> Cosette didn’t scream, but watched as the light left his sight.  Her body shook but she didn’t scream. Not anymore.
> 
> “Look into my eyes.” Cole watched her, aware of the churning fear rising into panic. It dashed away as soon as he willed her to forget. “Forget.”

It was the fourth assassin, but the first from the Qun. The first two had been for the Inquisitor, the third for Lady Josephine, and now Cosette. The first one, he told Leliana about and she directed him to the dry well to drop the bodies in - for now. But now, he wasn’t sure.

The library was quiet, save for a few people. They had soft hurts, old and gentle that if he touched and prodded they would whorl and ache. He didn’t want to do that. Not that he could follow their twisting threads to hear them with clarity.

 _Her_ hurts filled him, echoed and resonated somber sameness that twinned and twined.  It twisted and tugged until it was all he could hear. It was softer now that she could cry, now that terrible tears tore true.

His movements were a whisper as he slid through stacks and shelves. He could have appeared right next to them, but they had told him not to.

Cole had a question. Cole would have asked the others but he had given him permission to ask questions.

_You can ask me questions, if you like. I'm not sure why you'd want to._

“Dorian.” Cole called to the Tevinter mage who jolted in his arm chair, the book he’d been nose deep in flew out of his hands and thumped to the floor.

“Cole!” Dorian let out a low slow breath as his hand pressed to his chest. Cole could hear his heart thump-thump-thumping hard, chest expanded with each breath before it settled. Dorian leaned down and snatched the book up. “What have I told you about popping in on people?”

“I didn’t pop. I’m not corn.” Cole blinked wide eyed at Dorian.

“What?” Dorian shook his head. “Just walk up to me next time, if you will.”

“I did walk up. You didn’t hear me.”

“You need a bell.”

“I could wear it around my neck.” Cole looked up. “With a bow.” His brows furrowed as the mental image in Dorian’s head flitted across, but he dispelled it  realizing he was speaking to Cole.  But it wasn’t fast enough. “Why would my head turn purple?”

“Nevermind that.” Dorian flushed and waved it off.

“Dorian,” Cole enunciated with purpose, “I have a question.”

“I may have an answer.” Dorian smirked as he gestured for Cole to sit down on the other chair in his nook, despite the growing piles of books on Ancient Tevinter lore. He wasn’t sure what he expected but Cole gave the seat a long look without moving. “Sit, please.”

“The chair doesn’t like it when I sit on it.” Cole shifted.

Dorian squinted but nodded. He was getting used to Cole speaking of inanimate objects like they were people. Though considering Cole was a spirit, he did entertain the thought if the chair _was_ sentient before he waved that off too.

“What is your question?” Dorian prodded the spirit into talking.

“Can you do me a favor?” Cole’s words halted Dorian.

“Depends on the favor, but what is your question?”

“That was my question.”

 _It is too late in the day for this._ Dorian sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose but smiled.

Cole got his answer. It wasn’t a yes but it wasn’t a no. It was a conditional. It depended on the type of favor.

“Dorian.”

“Yes?” Dorian sighed.

“I have another question.”

“By all means.”

“What type of favors would you do for me?”

Dorian took a hard breath in and squinted. “It depends, like I said.”

“The type of favor depends on if you’d do me the favor?” Cole asked slowly.

“Precisely.”

Cole frowned, looking off toward where he knew the Skyhold prison was. How could he phrase this?

“Let’s make this simpler. What favor do you need?” Dorian pressed. He only hoped the spirit wasn’t asking to possess him or kill anyone.

“I want to arrange a visit.”

“A visit?”

“For Alexius.”

Dorian sat straight as he watched Cole, gaging if this was a trick or a joke. Yet the young man - _spirit_ looked serious and anticipated his response.

“Could you arrange it for me? As a favor?” Cole stepped forward, closer than he had ever been even during the first few times they fought side by side with the Inquisitor. Though it was strange, the Inquisitor hadn’t taken Cole with them the last time they had ventured out.  

“Who wants to visit Alexius?” Dorian asked, suspicious of Cole’s intentions.

“It’s not to visit Alexius. Alexius wants to visit someone.”

“Cole, Alexius is a prisoner. Even if I could arrange for him to meet with someone, he wouldn’t be allowed outside of Skyhold.”

“Would he be allowed in the courtyard?”

“Well yes but- wait. Whom do you want Alexius to meet with?”

* * *

 

Dorian was familiar with death. He had to, being a necromancer. Usually he dealt with the dead of recently departed and risen with wisps of spirits that he called through, not the slow decaying death of pestilence. He’d gotten used to it more with Felix, but before him, he tended to avoid the infirmary wards.  

“This way.” Cole ducked into the corner tent, past the other more open individuals afflicted with _illness_.

“Maker...the smell.” His nose crinkled as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose. The malodorous scent was death warmed over with a hint of pus filled infection. He stepped past the other tents and cots and into the one Cole had disappeared within.

There was a small workspace made of boxes lined up on one side. Beakers, flasks, filters, and several vials were filled with various collections of liquids that he recognized as the body fluids. There was a pipet with a litmus fluid, and an unlit flame rune. On the other side was a cot with more boxes and barrels. On the cot lay someone. He couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman, the shape of their body was not very telling.

Cole slipped from the corner of the tent to the workspace where he grabbed an unused pipette to suck up a broth like fluid from a bottle and nudged the girl awake by pressing the pipette to her lips. Her mouth opened and he dribbled the broth.

Dorian was struck still - fascinated by the more caring side to Cole. His bedside manner was surprisingly adept.

“You have to drink more.” Cole whispered.

“Hng, no.” Her voice rasped.  

“You’re hungry. It pangs and aches, you need more.”

“Fine.” She rumbled and drank more.  He helped her to sit up. Her bandaged hands rubbed at her eyes.

Dorian forgot himself as he openly stared.  His throat tight as he took in the sharp contours of a starved frame. He knew what they looked like, knew what it meant but this… this was neglect at grotesque levels. Who would allow such a thing?  He looked away before she noticed him.

“You’re Dorian.” Her dispirited voice drew his gaze upward to meet her own. Her wide eyes left him unsettled. It took a second for him to figure out why. Her eyelashes. She had none as though they had been sanded down below the follicles. The thought and picture of this wispy girl being held still as her tormentors slowly worked her eyelids with precise cruelty.

Dorian could not keep eye contact for long, the thought sent the hair on his body on end. But then he was faced with everything else. Her hollowed cheeks, pale blue lips, complexion beyond pallid and her hair - _Maker_ her hair. A wannish straw color that was shorn close to her scalp in patches or ripped out.   

“I-” Dorian was at a loss for words. What had been done to her?

She was giving him a patient look, waiting. As though she had all the time, as if she didn’t look about to fall over and die from the strain of being awake or whatever wasting illness affected her.

“I know my appearance is less than adequate to meet someone as divinely gorgeous as Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. And before you think you must say it, I know you’re not a magister. You’re an Altus. Descended from the original dreamers.”  She recited with a bit of lilt to her voice. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m a bit…” Here she gestured to herself - hands quivering and voice wobbling a moment before she took a steadying breath. “...under the weather. I apologize for it.”

“Apologize?” Dorian snapped out of it. “You’re…”

“Dying?” She asked with a tilt of her head. “Yes, they said that two weeks ago, and yet I’m still here.” Her lips stretched into a smile.

It did not ease his concern.

“Have we met before?”

“ **I’ve** met you. Many times. As a man, as a woman, as an elf, dwarf, qunari. Sometimes as a mage.”  

“Forgive me, I don’t recall-”

“You haven’t met me. If you had…”  She gave a wistful huff as her eyes glistened. “That would have been so cool.”

“Sorry, you’ve met me but not I you?”

“I’m not from this world.”

“What?”

“Have you ever wondered what’s beyond the fade?”

“Of course I have. As have others.” Dorian responded with ease but then held his hand up to pause her next words. “You’ve met me?”

“Yes.”

“And yet I have not met you?”

“Correct.”

Dorian took a glance at Cole. This was as infuriating as navigating conversations with him. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me then, as I have not met you I am not well acquainted to know your name.”

“Oh. Oh!” Her voice broke. “Sorry. My manners are shot.”

“Understandable.” Dorian gestured to a box and she nodded as he sat down.

“I’m Cosette of Earth, most recently from Haven and relocated - unwillingly I might add - to Skyhold in the middle of Fuck-off Nowhere in the Frostbacks that straddle the border between Orlais and Ferelden.”  

Dorian gave a small chuckle. “Of Earth? Where is that?”

“Beyond the fade. Er… that’s my running theory.”

“Running theory?”

“I came through...a mirror. No a portal. No a rift.” She stumbled over her words.

“So which is it?”

“All three, technically. Thinking with portals is not my strong suit.”

“I’m surprised you’re thinking at all.” Dorian gave her whole frame a once over, referring to how frail she was and thus how fragile and delicate her mind _should_ be.

“I _know_ right?” Her voice went higher pitched and she cringed, hand to her throat.

“Don’t overstrain yourself on my account, woman.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “ _Don’t_ call me, woman.” Her voice warbled with strain.

Brows raised, he noted that her lips quivered as she looked up, faintly muttering _please no_.

“They’re not here.” Cole was quick to mutter, assuring her.  She snapped her attention back to him.

A stone dropped in Dorian’s stomach, heavy and uncomfortable as the implication of that exchange came full circle.

“She’s tired.” Cole told Dorian as they waited for her to recover with a few more mouthfuls of broth.  “You talked too much.”  He whispered to Cosette as he set her back to laying down.

“You should have heard me back home.” Her voice took on a raspy dried quality, but her eyes fluttered closed. The tent was quiet as Dorian listened with a heavy heart to her strained breaths before Cole shifted her to laying on her side and it was easier, clearer.

Outside the tent, Dorian walked a short distance only to spin back and meet Cole head on.

“Why does Alexius want to visit her?” He whispered.

“Their cells were next to each other in Haven.”

“Next to each other, that’s impossible there wasn’t-” He trailed off, thinking back to the cell in Haven.

> “We moved him to another cell, just incase we need to use the passageway. Wouldn’t want Alexius to escape while we’re busy closing the breach, would we?” Lavellan smiled.
> 
> “Why would we need to use the passageway?” Dorian asked as they headed up toward the Temple.
> 
> “Call it a hunch.” She shrugged.
> 
> “Someday, you’ll explain these hunches to me oh Herald of Andraste. Less I’m to believe it is divine providence as your followers believe.”
> 
> She laughed with an unusual carefree nature despite the gravity of their march to the temple. “Someday...maybe.”

Alexius had never been in that cell, it was far too put together, too nice, to clean but it was the perfect cell to trick him into-

“Maker, I’m a fool.” He swore in seven different languages and cursed the Inquisition - _no._ He cursed the Inquisitor. Alexius had always been in the cell he dragged him from in their escape. The girl had been with him the entire time and he had no way of knowing what she did to him, or had ordered to be done to him. All he knew was that Alexius had been exhausted, _magically drained_ when he pulled him out of that cell as they escaped.  Alexius had been helping her, healing her to exhaustion. But the level of mana depletion, that meant he was doing it nonstop everyday with no room to recuperate. “I saw her.  She was a wisp of a thing.” Dorian pulled his handkerchief out and dabbed at his cheeks in quick succession and sniffed. “I saw her and I left her behind because I thought - Kaffas!”

“Pale and gray, like death. Unmoving, unchanging, no reaction. But she was there slipping into quiet sleep with shallow long slow breaths, sometimes with no breaths.” Cole whispered, hands wringing. “Noise, so much. Thundering shuffling feet.  What is happening? The ceiling shakes.”

“I thought she was dead.” Dorian looked back toward the tent.

Cole squashed the whine in the back of his throat. He made Dorian hurt, it was wrong but he needed him to know, to help her. His fingers twitched. He shouldn’t make him forget. But maybe...

“I...I.” Cole stumbled. “I knew she lived. Herself, her soul clawing, clinging to this side, this self.  The fade wanted - needed to whisk her away - a new shade, a new wisp, a new spirit made, but she clung and clawed even though the fade howled and whined - yanking. She willed herself firm - solid - _real._ ” Cole muttered, head ducked. “The snow came down, it would be a matter of time. There were so many others, so many hurts.  Urgent and loud.” Cole stopped. “I thought she would die, like the others left behind.”

“But she lived.” Dorian composed himself, his gaze hard as he turned away from the tent, remembering why Cole had brought him. “Cole.”

“Yes?”

“I will do everything I can to have Alexius here with her, but…” Dorian refrained from grabbing onto Cole, his voice lowering as he looked around.  He had a suspicion of an answer, but he wanted to know for sure. “...I need to know one thing.”


	8. Anamnesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anamnesis: the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence.
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING** Feels alert.

Drained and beyond exhausted, Ellana climbed the stairs to her room. The room was furnished and finished, and the rest of the tower declared safe enough to climb.

High up and exposed to the thin mountain air with the Frostbacks as her view. Twas nothing compared to forested views of the Marches, but it would do. It was certainly better because she didn't have to be anywhere near the shems like she had been when they first found Skyhold.

The way Cullen looked at her at times, especially when she did magic - it was a desperate hunger that dripped over her. There was a time when she might have thought him handsome, but now the way he gazed at her left her wishing for heavier and more concealing clothes.

Then there were the faint whisperings of the nobles who dared and "braved" the roads to visit Skyhold. Knife-ear and little rabbit were among their common vernacular as they thought she had left the room. Her ears were not big for show. She had incredible hearing range.

Her teeth ground hard whenever she had to greet a noble who she knew was staring at inappropriate places through his mask. She restrained herself, if only because Josie had asked her.

She tolerated Josie. She was nice and at least pretended to respect the Dalish and their culture. Josephine was the good shem. Even if she assigned mountains of paperwork and missives.

Her fingers were swollen from responding, eyes strained from reading, and back ached from being hunched over the war table as they considered their next movements. It was harder now than before. Before she was an agent who happened to have the mark, the anchor. Now she was the Inquisitor.

A title that felt bitter on her tongue, bitter in her heart. She didn't want to be Inquisitor but someone had to. Just like she'd told Bull. The Inquisition was a mess and better a Dalish to make sure her people's needs were not forgotten.

She entered her quarters and shivered. "By the dread wolf it's freezing." She cursed the opened doors of her balcony. Ellana had forgotten she'd left them open and hurried to close them. With a handwave her fireplace lit up, casting the room in light.

The room was extravagant, by shem standards, meant to be inviting. Big enough for a family with a side room for a child — if she converted the wine closet. But to her it was large, empty, and oppressive with the Chantry's flag on the wall.

Ellana pulled her most treasured item out from underneath her collar. An enchanted beaded necklace with the markings of Sylaise. An elven charm of healing, protection, and warmth. It was a charm given to children once they reach their fifth year, as a weaning 's pulsing thudding warmth was meant to emit the heartbeat of their mother or father, to aid in getting them to sleep. This charm had belonged to her daughter.

"Da'lan, ma vhenan." She whispered to the beads.

_"Mamae." Sulana ran into the aravel, hair braided and giggling as she ducked behind Ellana. "Hide me!" Ellana used her robe to hide Sula, while continuing to attend to the hanging leaves of the vallasdahlen. When they fall for autumn, the clan picks them up to dry. Their oils had a healing property - not to mention the fragrance was pleasant._

_"Sula! Time for sleep._ "  _Revehn came after Sula, body hunched down to be level with his small child. His hand braced against the wall as he stopped, smile bright as he cast his gaze around the aravel in mock._

_Sula let out a giggle before slapping her hand over her mouth._

_"Mamae, have you seen our da'lan?"_

_"Sula? No-no. I saw her run right past." Ellana smiled wide at the wink Revehn gave her._

_"Ah, ma serannas, ma vhenan." Revehn pecked her lips before sneaking out of the aravel. He waited just outside._

_"Is Papae gone?"_

_"Mhmm." Ellana hummed, watching as Sula peered around. Her dress ruffled and dirtied from playing but she walked on her tiptoes to the door. Her neck craned as she looked. She shrieked as Revehn jumped down from a tree branch and wiggled his fingers at her._

_"Ah ha! There you are!" he laughed and Sula giggled as her father picked her up and bounced her in his arms. He threw himself onto the bed, tickling Sula's sides._

_"Papae!" Sula laughed as she wiggled, attempting to avoid her father's fingers on her sides._

_"Yes Sula?" Revehn stopped long enough to let her take a breath before turning them over and he blew raspberries against her belly._

_"Ahh hahaha papae!" She wiggled. "Mamae, help help! Papae isn't fair!" She called between gasps of breaths._

_"Oh? You want me to help?"_

_"Yes!"_

_Ellana climbed onto the bed, slow before pouncing and also tickling Sula. "Like this?"_

_"NOOOOoo hahaha!" Sula went red face, but her lips were spread wide as she cackled. The tickle attack continued until all three were laughed out. Sula shifted downward until she was between her parents._

_"Mamae, will you sing me to sleep?"_

_"Wouldn't you prefer Papae?"_

_"No."_

_"Ouch, Sula. Is my singing that bad?"_

_Sula turned around and gave Revehn a stare. "You sound like a halla."_

_"Ooof. You wound me. Mamae, do I sound like a -"_

_"Without a doubt." Ellana snickered._

_"Betrayed by my two vhenans. Revehn gasped and fell away from them, hand on his forehead. "By the dread wolf, whatever shall I do?" His eyes fluttered closed, only opening one eye to peek at them as they snickered._

_"Be quiet while I sing, perhaps?" Ellana suggested._

_"Of course." Revehn conceded, situating himself so Sula could tuck herself against his chest. Ellana sat up, beginning to undo the braids in Sula's hair on one side, while Revehn did the other with one hand. Sula reached into her dress and pulled out Sylaise's charm._

Skyhold was bristling with a wind chill. Her fingers brushed across the wooden charm, invoking the magics. A heat blossomed from the small charm. Enough to stave off the cold and no more. It thrummed in bursts in her hand. Her daughter always did that right before her bedtime song. Taking a shuddering breath, Ellana began to sing.

"Elgara vallas, da'len." Ellana pulled her braid loose from the bun. "Melava somniar."

_"Mala taren aravas." Sula gave a small yawn, bright green eyes staring up at her as she sang. "Ara ma'desen melar."_

"Iras ma ghilas, da'len." She ran her fingers through her hair in the same way she would have with Sula. "Ara ma'nedan ashir."

_"Dirthara lothlenan'as Bal emma mala dir." Revehn pulled the blanket up over Sula, shifting so he could climb out._

"Tel'enfenim, da'len Irassal ma ghilas." With hair loosened, Ellana slipped out of her trousers and curled up under her blankets, hand wrapped tightly around her necklace.

_"Ma garas mir renan ― ara ma'athlan vhenas. Ara ma'athlan vhenas." Ellana repeated the song a few more times, watching her child's eyes droop close before laying a kiss on her forehead. Revehn slipped out, laying his own kiss on their daughter and turning to Ellana._

_"Ar lath, ma vhenan." Revehn pressed his forehead to hers._

Ellana fell asleep to their memory, knowing at least for now, she might see them in her dreams.

* * *

**HAVEN**

Seven Months Ago

"Lady Montilyet, you said there was something urgent for me?" Lavellan walked through the doors to the back of the Chantry. They were only in Haven again to resupply before heading toward the Hinterlands. The watchtowers for Redcliffe farm should be finished and having horses to make their travel easier would be a welcome treat. They weren't Halla or Harts, but beggars could not be choosers.

They had two more recruits, Lady Vivienne and Sera, but they could use more. It helped that the former Grand Enchanter had given them an invitation to Redcliffe but Leliana said she wanted to watch the town first before letting Ellana go. It had to be safe and secure and there had been no word out of Redcliffe since Leliana asked for aid from the rebel mages and then Fiona shows up.

They had almost begun measures to contact the Templars when Ellana met them in Val Royeaux. Lord Seeker Lucius did not seem like a Shem who would be willing to help, especially not after that display. So they were a bit desperate.

They needed to close the Breach.

Erring to caution was always her usual course of action. Watching and waiting but it was all thrown out. The Breach was not usual circumstances. Who knows how long that temporary seal would last. They needed power. Fast.

Ellana paused inside Josie's door at the sight of Cullen and Leliana.

"Herald." Cullen spoke up but his voice was off, like he'd been given bad news. In his hands he clutched a parchment. His brows furrowed as he stepped forward. "I've received word from Lieutenant Chambreterre and..."

Ellana reached for the parchment when Cullen would say no more.

"Commander Cullen, our group approached the Dalish camp in full armor to show the strength of the Inquisition." Ellan read out but stopped. "Un...Unfortunately, the Dalish hunters took our arrival as a threat and sounded an alarm. We…" Her heart sank. "...defended ourselves." Her eyes tracked back and forth across the missive. "...did not strike in malice — lives lost on both sides — the Dalish leader was able to rein his people in."

Ellana breathed a sigh, though shakily she finished the missive from the Lieutenant, until she got to the second page.

Silence.

"Let us give the Herald a moment." Josephine spoke up. Her heeled footsteps led out of the war room, followed by the booted feet of Cullen.

"I'm sorry." Cullen whispered as he passed. The door closed.

The parchment crumpled in her hand as she sank to her knees. Her shoulders shook before heaving as gasping sobs overtook her. Ellana's hand balled into a fist and she shoved it in her mouth to silence herself as she read the second parchment. The single blood stained Sylaise charm heavy in her hands, cold.

Her fingers brushed against the charm, activating it. It came to life, a thud-thud-thud pattern of her heartbeat left her sobbing.

"Herald?"

Ellana shot up. Face tracked with dried tears. She'd fallen asleep in the war room. On the floor no less. The parchments still clutched to her chest and charm and necklace wrapped around one hand.

Leliana stood before her giving her a pitying look.

"Do you…" Lavellan's voice cracked.

"I know." Leliana answered. "There is an urgent matter you should be aware of."

"What is it?" Lavellan snapped. She didn't want to deal with any of this. The mark or the Breach. For all she cared at that very moment, the Inquisition could fuck off. It was the Inquisition that...that cost her the only family she ever had.

"Bring her in."

Entering the war room accompanied by Scout Charter was a dark haired young human woman with skin as rich in color as the earth. Yet her eyes were sallow, lips dry and appearance an unkempt mess.

"Lavellan!" The woman said in glee as Ellana faced her. She tried to step forward but Charter gripped the chain that held her, halting her progress. "Sorry… sorry. I-wow...you're different than how I imagined. Course I imagined it was my custom inqy, but anyway - wow! So nice to see you. Hey what's your first name anyway?"

"What?"

"Your name. Er wait — unless, is it Ellana?" The woman grimaced but at Ellana's taken back expression she grinned. "Awesome. Defaults."

"Defaults - what? What are you talking about? What is your name?"

"Oh doy. Sorry, I've been waiting, trying to figure out the order of when things happened." She rambled and Ellana stepped toward her with an impatient sigh.

"What is your name?"

"Sorry-sorry. Gosh I sound every bit the Canadian I am. Uh, I'm Cosette."

"Leliana says you have vital information?"

"Yes! Okay you're going to get a letter from your clan." Cosette began. Lavellan's heart skipped, her body stilled. "Whatever you do, do  **not**  tell Cullen to send his forces. I mean I don't have to tell you that. You're Dalish. I mean who would send armed human forces to a bunch of Dalish who don't trust humans for shit? It's common sense, ey? But they'll die if you do."

 _Common sense?_ Ellana's teeth ground staring at the shem before her. "Common sense? Is it not common sense to send armed forces in the midst of all this chaos? Is it not common sense for me to have sent them to protect my clan? Is that not common sense?" Ellana roared and pushed Cosette against the door. The chains keeping her hands bound slammed against the door. Tears pricked at her eyes as her ears pointed up.

"You knew this would happen and you-" Ellana growled. "How long has she been here? How long has she known about this?"

"Had I known she possessed this information I would have made this the utmost priority." Leliana offered, expression severe.

"How long?!"

"Since before the Breach." Leliana stated, already seeing where Ellana was now headed. Her face stony and grim.

"Before the Breach?" Ellana snapped to look at the shem. "And she possesses information about the future? Is that not suspicious?" Ellana rasped and slammed Cosette against the door again. "Did you know the Breach was going to happen?"

"I did yes. But- " Cosette flinched back with the realization that things weren't going how she thought they would. "Wait. I-I… did know but it had to happen!"

"Had to happen?" Ellana growled. The thrumming of her child's charm at her chest. The death of so many at the temple, the Andrastian Divine's death. Everyone that died in the Hinterlands because of the Breach. The soaked earth muddy with the thousands of death and the charred remains of those blasted by the explosion. "None of this had to happen." She pulled back, disgusted in the shem. "Take her away. Find out everything she knows."

"Of course." Leliana agreed and nodded to Charter.

"Wait! What are you going to do?" Cosette asked, fear etched into her voice as she was dragged out of the room and down into the dungeon below the Chantry.

Once the shem woman was out of sight, Ellana turned to the war table, arms braces against it. Her glare scanned the landscape of the Hinterlands, all the people that had died because of the Breach. Mages, Templars, Civilians...Dalish. Her clan. Her family. Her child. 

"She could be a spy." Ellana finally spoke.

"She could."

"Did anyone see this…" Ellana gestured to the missive she still had.

"No one but my scouts and ravens. I will find out if any of them leaked the information."

"Thank you." Ellana sighed. "If…" She frowned. "If she does know the future." She let out a bitter laugh. The sheer thought of that possibility would have never been possible under normal circumstances. But there was a hole in the sky, rifts raining chaos across Ferelden, Orlais, and even as far as the Free Marches. Anything was possible.

"She will be a valuable asset."

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took long. The original chapter that I was gonna post just didn't feel right to post yet, so I give you this.
> 
> Elven Lullaby: [Mir Da'len Somniar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zl3CmzQY1So)


	9. Oath

Galen pricked her patient for the fourth time that day. It wasn't wise, or healthy for the patient but she only needed a little more of her fluids. Perhaps her other five diagnostics had been incorrect. She had been working nonstop since arriving at Skyhold. She'd barely had any sleep. It was entirely possible her prognosis was made because of sleep deprivation.

She paced waiting for the blood to separate. She took solace it wasn't sludge anymore. Thank the maker. But it was still not optimal.

The patient had far more blood to bleed out, but not by much. Her appetite improved, she could not move much without pain.  

While Galen had an entire speech about nutrition to the field medic - _what was his name? Stitches?_ \- she was baffled at the patient’s continued malnourished state. They hadn’t been able to increase the broth, not without the patient becoming ill and rejecting it.  Even with gurgut liver.

The Surgeon picked up her notes, reviewing the symptoms.

Weak, low energy, emaciation, immobile, eighteen hours of sleep a day. Awake only to eat and defecate. Mouth sores healed. Displays remarkable mental clarity despite the damage to her body. _And likely psyche._

She’d circled that last section with a question mark, still unsure of what had caused all of this.

The blood began to settle into four humors. It wasn't uncommon for there to be more Phlegm. They were, after all, in the middle of the Frostbacks in Winter. What was odd was that the level of phlegm was more than four times the amount as the rest of the fluids.  That much phlegm would indicate the recently deceased. With neither negative or positive influences on the body. An apathy with the world. Neither living or dead.

“No. Impossible.” She shook her head. The patient was clearly living. She breathed, spoke, and produced waste.

Perhaps? this could indicate a person with a complete lack of desire to live.

“Yes.” Galen muttered as she tinkered on her worktable. “That makes more sense. Suicidal. These levels could be similar to those committed to sanatoriums.” Galen sighed as she watched the fluids finished separating. Most of her practical medical knowledge came from studying those with chronic illness and mental instability. That is where she learned the most of abnormal levels of humors.

But she’s never seen levels like these. It was almost all phlegm again. Only this time, there was barely a drop of blood and yellow bile. Only phlegm and black bile.

Galen was a white as snow. She couldn’t dance around it anymore. By all factors, her patient was dead.

“Oh maker.” She whispered as she swallowed. Without a second thought, her feet carried her off. Her fingers still clutched around her notes as she weaved through the halls of Skyhold for the one person who might bring some semblance of sense.

Sometimes science failed where magic succeeded. If magic is what was keeping her patient alive, she needed the Chantry. She needed the Templars.

 

* * *

 

Upon first arriving at Skyhold, much of the Inquisition’s scouts, forces, and people had been scattered across Ferelden. The large majority of them in the Hinterlands. But a fair few of the employed Mercenary groups had been dispatched, so long as their mages had been left behind to aid in closing and sealing the Breach.

So it came as a bit of a shock that when news flew off on the backs of Leliana’s ravens of where the Inquisition was now located, there came a contingent of battered and worse for wear Templars on the run from Therinfall Redoubt and in the company of one Cremisius Aclassi and the Chargers. Their mission? Investigate Therinfall Redoubt while the then Herald returned from recruiting the mages. They hadn’t been heard from, even when the Herald and her party arrived back, for months. When they did their report was only read by the Commander and Spymaster. But the Chargers had been sent out to slowly bring the stragglers and refugees to Skyhold, slowly going through the mountain pass and escorting them back with a retinue of soldiers. It was there they found the templars.  

Many mages wished for them to be turned away or slaughtered, as did many of Haven’s citizens. They were still haunted by the memories of the Red Templar attack on Haven. Yet despite this, the Inquisitor saw fit to accept them. Not as Templars. No. She demanded they surrender and abandon their loyalty to the Order. Which was an easy task as much of the Order was well beyond corrupt and dismantled thanks to Corypheus and his general Samson.

They were placed under Commander Rutherford’s watch who ordered their immediate examination. After the Red Templars they had faced at Haven, they could take no chances. A thorough physical, cross interrogation by Leliana, and month long abstinence from lyrium ensured the Templars they received were free of Corypheus’s corruption.

All that, and they still were not trusted. They had only shown they were not spies. Now they had to prove they were loyal to the Inquisition. They steered clear of the Mages. Did as much work as the builders needed their aid in, and did routine guard duties in the worst shifts at each forward camp. Yet still, people looked at them fearfully. They remembered the horrors of ghoulish red lyrium tainted templars as much as the citizens of Haven. Some of these Templars took it, accepting the reality they were no longer respected and were now feared. They did their best to show they had come a long way. Humbled and hardworking they were the best of them.

Like Ser Barris. He did twice as much of the grimiest work to do. Digging out the latrines, scrubbing the bathing chambers, even helping to build the mage tower to perfection. Being ordered by mages for every little tiny thing. He did it in stride and kept his head bowed.

It was well recognized. Cullen had him assigned to watch over the remaining Templars and report to him. It did not stop Barris from helping where help was needed.

Like the stables. Barris and and his right and long time friend, Fletcher, toiled in the stables. A job, while a step above latrine duty, was still one not many choose to do.

They mucked the stables of the Inquisitor’s personal mounts. There were only two horses but a slew of Harts and Hallas filled the stalls. They did not produce any less manure or require any less feed. Today though, there was a new mount added to her collection.

Ser Fletcher wiped his brow. “You’d think the Inquisitor had enough harts.”

“She's Dalish.” Barris said, as if it answered the situation.

“But why Harts? Why not Halla?” Fletcher heaved a larger pile of manure.

“Well. I imagine she wants to replace every horse in the Inquisition with a Hart.” Barris explained. “As for why not halla. They are quite small. Not really right for a ride. But I hear they pull aravels.”

“Aravels?”

“You know the…” Barris gestured with his hands to paint a picture. “The Dalish homes. They move em around with the Halla.”

“Huh.” Fletcher shrugged.

They lapsed into silence. They gave themselves this duty specifically because it was stinky (though not quite so as with the latrines) and involved intense and constant work every day.  Though they did have a break when they brushed down the mounts.

Horsemaster Dennet certainly didn’t mind as he could take a moment to himself to speak with Warden Blackwall about Marcher Tourneys. A welcome break for his old bones. He was getting on in his years after all.

On more than one occasion Fletcher paused to listen in at the tale of a chevalier fighting in the Grand Melee.  

Barris on the other hand enjoyed the lulls of quiet contemplation. A silent vigil to steal his nerves. Without lyrium that first month they were all a bit jittery. Their lyrium reserves were low as.

Hard work however, had a way to still the shakes. It gave them something to concentrate on. Whether mucking stalls, laying bricks, or splitting logs. It diverted their attention. But only so long as they worked.

As you can imagine, their dedication allowed for much of the repairs of Skyhold to be completed sooner than was expected by even the mason or skilled builders.

But now there was less work. Less work meant more time for the withdrawal to eat at them. Shakes, sweats, and an eternal chill in the absence of lyrium. It was no surprise some of the Templars, fed up with back breaking and demeaning work - powered by lyrium withdrawal infused paranoia - left. Those that remained were Barris, Fletcher, Lysette, Matrin, and a handful of Templars.

It was trying, Barris admitted. Not just saying physically but emotionally. The purpose they had so long pursued now abandoned and wasted. Their skills as Templars unrealized. All because of the hubris of the senior most officers in the Order.  

Wiping his brow, Barris noticed Fletcher had stopped. “Fletch, come on, you can speak to Warden Blackwall once we finish.” He sighed.

“That's not it Del.” Fletcher pointed. It toward Blackwall and Dennet but past them into the courtyard, where a woman was speaking with Matrin. She was frantic and her voice finally rose.

“Don't patronize me! I assure you I have done everything in my power. It's not enough. She breathes and she shouldn't. I need a Templar. Clearly she must be possessed! Don't you understand?!”

Instinct drove Barris and Fletcher to abandon their cleaning duty to approach her at those words. It made all within her vicinity look at her. But between her disheveled appearance, exhausted expression, and erratic movements, she appeared addled. So while they looked up at her words, they dismissed her.

Not Templars though. It was often the ones people thought crazy who saw the abuse of magic.

“Ser.” Matrin was ramrod straight as Barris and Fletcher approached. “I wasn't sure if we are allowed to.”

“It's alright. Continue with your duty. I'll handle it.” Delrin dismissed the once Knight Templar, who nearly gave him a salute before returning to carrying the bricks on the wheel barrel.

The woman who fretted and worried her hands, kept glancing toward the infirmary tents. The builders had yet to settle on the best spot for the hospital.

Barris recognized her as the surgeon, the one who had given him a physical. “Doctor?”

“Magic cannot heal everything. That is where science comes in. I know this. But magic _can_ do things. Terrible things to -” her voice shook as she tried to explain. “One of my patients...it must be an abomination.”

“That is a serious accusation.” Fletcher crossed his arms. “What makes you so certain?”

“All my tests. Every diagnostic tool I have point to it being dead. Yet it talks. Breathes. It can't walk but...perhaps…” Galen’s voice drifted off to rambling and mutterings. Her gaze frenetic. “No. No. It has to be. There is no other explanation. I have exhausted all my efforts to find another way. Possession could be the only thing to cause this, unless...”

“Unless?” Barris and Fletcher mirrored each other.

“Blood magic?”

Abominations and blood magic. It set Barris’s teeth on edge.

“We will look into this.” Fletcher offered.

“Fletch!” Delrin stiffened, aware of the possibility of the Nightingale’s spies listening as he pulled him off to the side. “What are you doing?!”

“We’re Templars. I’m doing what a Templar would do. Or have you forgotten?”

“We no longer have loyalty to the Order. That was part of the agreement-”

“Yes. I know. But we’re still Templars.”

“We are no longer loyal to the Order.”

“We took an oath. To protect the world from the abuse of magic. That goes above the Order. Above the Chantry. That is an oath with the Maker.” Fletcher pushed. “I cannot sit idly by. That's why we refused to submit to Corypheus's corruption.”

“Fletch...we should at least tell the Commander about this.” Barris sighed.

“You tell him. I've had enough of waiting. The Inquisition isn't going to trust us by waiting. We need to take action.”

“Where is this coming from?” Del frowned. “Not a moment ago you were fine helping clean the stables.”

Fletch parsed a glance back to the stables. “I'm tired Del. Tired of hoping for approval. Of being the Inquisition’s errand boy. I didn't join the Order for this.”

“Neither did the rest of us. Doesn't mean you can act without orders. Think of it logistically. We are outnumbered. One Templar to twenty mages.” Delrin reasoned with him. “If we so much as step out of line, they will retaliate.”

Fletcher sighed. “And if there is a blood mage?”

“We go to the proper channels.”

“Del.” Fletch growled.

“Listen.” Barris barked low at his friend. “We tell Ser Cullen. We do not act. We inform them of the situation. Much of a Templar’s duties is watching, remember that.” Barris reminded him. “Besides…” He looked at the doctor. “We haven't even seen the accused. How many times did locals accuse someone of blood magic or apostasy and it only turned out to be just a somewhat odd person?”

Fletch sighed. “Sorry Del. I feel useless.”

“No need to apologize. I understand.” Barris clapped his shoulder. “Alright, Doctor. Please lead the way?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of Trivia:  
> I named the Surgeon Galen because the name is short for Galenus, which derives from "galene". It was the name of a second-century Greek physician. 
> 
> If anyone knows anything about medical humors, please correct me. Because that little bit I wrote, completely made up.


	10. Despair

Refugees poured into Skyhold and the surrounding camps and makeshift towns. The Keep wasn't fit to house that many people so buildings and structures went up to give shelter to the people who made the pilgrimage to Skyhold to see the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor.

Too many desperate, hungry, and cold people. They sought hope and found it. They sought food and were fed. They sought warmth and were clothed.

But not everyone got everything they needed. They had to scrounge up what they could and then set the refugees to work. Many hands made the work lighter, easier. But also made it harder for those up above. Everyone had to pitch in. Unless you were too sick or too injured.

Cosette was too sick and too injured but she denied any more broth than was necessary, saying others needed it more. She didn't complain when the cold seeped into her bones and her teeth chattered.

It left Cole frustrated. She was cold and he knew how to help her but she pushed it away and said others were colder than her.

There wasn't! He could see. They were all warmer than her. So he took to sneaking the blankets on her while she slept.

He couldn’t slip her more food either because she would be sick. " _It’d go to waste.”_ She told him last time he tried to give it to her.

Cole whined when he felt her hurt.  _“Not worth it. I’m going to die anyway. They deserve it.”_

“You need it more.” He muttered, fingers fidgeting against the loose strands of his sleeves. But she didn’t budge no matter what he said. Stubborn, resolute, still. He could make much of her hurt go away, make it end but she didn’t want to die. Yet she knew she was going to anyway and stared off listless and calm, gaze lacking light and desire.

Cole left the tent when she fell asleep. Even in her dreams she was empty and void. When the surgeon was in, her lips lifted up into a placating smile. Platitudes fell from her tongue yet the surgeon said nothing, her own mind a mess and whirling tangle of puzzles. Cole could not unwind it fast enough, so he left it alone. The surgeon’s hurt didn’t call to him.

He wanted to soothe Cosette’s passing or make her better or make her forget it all.

 _“I know your tricks, Cole. I won’t be me without my memories.”_ She knew him, _knew_ him. Knew things about him, what he was, what he is, and what he could be.

Scrunching his nose, he walked away and up the steps. He had to walk instead of disappearing. Around Cosette the veil gaped but the further you got it was like air pressing down, slowing him. The veil was bunched up and it made it harder to **look**. Death and despair weakened the veil, stretching it, but it left so much of it elsewhere and made the veil elsewhere stronger, thicker, and clearer. He couldn’t **hear** and couldn’t **look** in the elsewhere. It was quiet.

He paused on the stairs to the keep. People could see him. Gazes lingered, gossip muttered, and whispers dying as he stepped just into the keep. He disappeared to everyone but who he chose.

Like Varric.

“Hey kid.”

Cole perched on the chair besides Varric. This chair liked him. It was warm and welcoming. The grain of the wooden seat smooth but the arms leaned against him, breathing the life of an old tree. A sylvan once but now just a well loved chair. It sat by the fire but did not fear it. Cole liked this chair. It was his favorite.

Once settled he looked at Varric for a long time, waiting. Varric rose his brows but let him be, continuing to write about the people in his head.

“Why do some people want to die?”

Varric stilled, setting his pen down as he looked to Cole. “Run that by me again, I don’t think I heard you right, Kid.”

Cole tilted his head to recall the twisting confusing words that flitted across her. “Sad, somber, she’s given up but won’t take action to end it, or let me help her. Inevitability. A matter of time. She wants for death to arrive and won’t fight for life.” Cole sighed.

Varric took a deep breath, heavy and long before he let it out. This was not a conversation he wanted to entertain but given what Cole’s done in the past, it too was inevitable.

“Sometimes, people are…” He frowned searching for the words.

Cole blinked as a memory flitted around him, twisting with sharp tugs at a hidden guilt.

“Red still sings to him. Creaking into the crevasse of consciousness. Locked away and tied down. Better for him, for his safety. _Mother loved you best._ ” Cole watched the memory of Varric’s brother’s hurt the last time he had seen him. “Raving and rabid, he fights one day, and rational the next. His words drove you to find out more. Must learn, must find out, there must be a way to reverse it. Haunted resigned faces stare out between bars as the sisters bring them feeding, cleaning, and caring for blank eyes. They aren’t there anymore. You worry he’ll become like them.”

Varric sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry.”

“No, no.” Varric waved off the raised hand.

“But I hurt you.”

“You didn’t. Those hurts already existed.” _You just brought them forward._

Cole furrowed his brow. Varric cleared his throat, writing a note on his papers. Cole didn’t need to look up to know what it was. _Check on Barty._ It was a long quiet while before Varric spoke again. Cole tried not to **look**.

“Some people can't handle the chaos around them. Where everything is out of their control and everything goes wrong. They’re...depressed. They take comfort in what they can control.” Varric tried to explain why someone would just give up. “Including their own death.”

“But she's not doing it. It's still out of her control. She doesn't _try_ to fight but doesn't _try_ to die either.”

“Huh.” Varric scratched an itch on his hand.

“ _Everybody dies, no use trying to escape it.”_ Cole mimicked her words and frowned.

“So this she…” Varric directed the conversation back. “She’s sick?”

“Not with a cough or sniffle. With unshed tears and aching stretching hunger.”

“Have you tried explaining to her suicide is a sin in the Chant?” Varric leant back in his chair.

“It is?”

“Right next to wearing mixed fabrics and eating shellfish.”

“Would that matter?”

“Wearing mixed fabrics? Or…” Varric didn’t need to look up. “Well… for some it would. But in the long run, it doesn’t help. Can’t you just look in her head to find out how to help?”

“I can.”

“And?”

“It hurts her when I do.” Cole fidgeted.

“Physically?”

“No… she.” Cole frowned.

_“Don’t look in my head, again.” Cosette spoke in the dark as he fed her broth. She grasped his hand, forcing him to look her in the eyes. He whined at the contact and would have pulled back if she didn’t glare. “Don’t go poking around in my head.”_

_“But I can help.” He whispered._

_“I don’t care.” She snapped._

_The skin of her fingers was saggy over boney fingers. Cracked and dirty finger tips. Where nails used to be was now a healing scab. A line of white at the cuticle indicated the nail was growing, if ever so slowly. Still her fingers poised as though ready to scratch him._

_“It’s an invasion of privacy. My privacy. You don’t just walk into a room. You knock first and ask permission. Don't be a peeping Tom.”_

“But I'm not Tom. I’m Cole.”

“Wait…” Varric steepled his fingers. “Let me get this straight, if I ask you not to go around messing in my head, you’ll stop?” Varric asked with all seriousness. If that’s all it took, he would have asked it of the kid months ago. No more messing with the lives of the characters in his books.

“Can you stop yourself from seeing? From looking?” Cole asked in earnest.

“Well no, but you can avert your gaze.”

“I wish I could.” Cole sighed. “Not like a door. I can’t knock. More like a window with no shutters. Sounds skitter and float to me, pulling me closer. I don’t have to look but the words, the _hurts_ \- I can help.” Cole tried to explain.

“So you’re a busybody.” Varric concluded.

“A busy… body?” Cole didn’t understand. “How can my body be busy?”

“I can think of a number of ways.” Varric mused to himself.

“What ways?”

“Er… not until you’re older, Kid.” Varric cringed, trying to dispel the thoughts in his head.

Cole saw them anyway. He remembered the mages in the tower would often do that. He’d watched once, one time he watched Rhys until - OH!

His cheeks paled. _Peeping tom._ That is what Cosette meant. Her thoughts were private, like when the mages were together.  Worse if you knew them, were close to them, worse if they knew you could see. A violator; a trespasser.  He went there and watched without their knowledge, but Cosette knew. Varric knew. Solas knew, Lavellan knew. Iron Bull knew. Blackwall knew. Cassandra knew. They all knew he watched and they never gave him permission.

“Aw Kid, really don’t go looking in there.” Varric thought of anything else, Andraste’s knickers for example.

“I’m sorry.” Cole’s lip trembled. “For looking, for speaking of things private, secret.” Cole ducked his head, hat covering his face.

Varric’s brows rose high. “Well, it’s not like you really could help it before.”

“No. You’re wrong. I could.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I do now.” Cole said before he disappeared. A knotted fold in his stomach made waves roll up his body and drop down with a slam. He stumbled.  He had to say sorry.

 

* * *

 

Sand, water, lime, volcanic ash and a little bit of bone powder for a sheen of white made the perfect plaster to paint the walls. It was several layers thick, meaning it would take weeks for it to fully dry. It was on par with ancient dwarven cement, but soft and retained the color he would later layer on in the walls of the rotunda.

Scaffolding and large canvas sheets covered most of one curved wall as he sharpened and cleaned his palette knife and ground pigments and mixed mediums.

Frescos was a weeks, sometimes month, long process for even the most skilled of artists. Details and intricate techniques to bring out the shapes and colors of what would one day be a completed work.

He would only need one week for this particular panel of a grander mosaic. He wanted to paint the Inquisition’s path, all that had happened. But he only ever had a week at Skyhold to do it. So he’s had to skip a few steps and employ the use of magic.

Not that there was anything wrong, it was just different. He remembered the times of old when creation with magic was as simple as thought. Where the world would shift beneath his feet and the air came to life with words and songs, painting the existences around him reflecting what could have been - is been and happening.

Now it was harder, muted and stubborn. Even here in Skyhold. Though it was significantly more lucid and fluid here than say the Hinterlands. He ached for a time he remembered.

He climbed the scaffolding and began. This would be his second piece in the rotunda. He had a vision of what it would be. The alternate future Lavellan had seen and what it was when she came through, triumphant and alive still.

He created a texture of light using raised and lowered triangles on the depiction of the future. Sharp reds and muted streaks of light. All of the colors he used on this side were darker. Nothing good came of that alternate future.

Nothing good could ever come had the Breach remained as it was.

The veil tugged to his left. A familiar presence arriving. He needn’t look to know. “Cole.”

“I’m sorry.”

Solas stilled his hand.

“For?”

“For **looking**.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. You’re looking at me now, Cole. Are you apologizing now for something you cannot help but do?”

“No, for... **looking**. Inside, reading and speaking words of things I shouldn’t, things that are private.” Cole fretted.

Solas set his tools down, pulling the cloth from his belt to wipe the palette knife clean.

“Cole. You speak these things because you wish to help. Why would you apologize for your nature of helping?”

“Because it hurts her. Does it hurt others too? Can it? But it hurt her. Looking, and reading, and speaking. I invaded and she didn’t want me to know, didn’t want me to look. A trespasser of her mind, thoughts, and feelings.” Cole sighed.

Solas set the knife down and walked toward Cole, kneeling before him.

“An act can cause pain in one person but can not in another. You know it hurts her, so you know now to stop doing it with her. You cannot accommodate everyone, but when someone says to stop doing something, you should listen. Especially if it causes them pain.”

“How do I know who it hurts and doesn’t?”

Solas sighed. “That, my friend is something you must learn to help you fulfill your nature. But do not let it stop you. This world is too bleak, it needs your compassion.”

Cole whined low. “Have you ever hurt someone when you wanted to help?”

Solas paused. He has. He has hurt many people. In his rise, in his act of vengeance, in foolish emotion riddled sense of justice. He will hurt many more to come too. He walks the path of death.

“I have.” Was his simple response as he picked up his palette knife and began carving the wall again.

For a time, Cole sat, staring at the picture in Solas’s head and watched as it was realized. He could remember. Old, distant memories from the fade, before Rhys, before... _Cole_. When magic was there and here. There was no barrier, no veil separating here from the Fade. It just was.

“Perhaps, you can apologize to the one you hurt?” Solas suggested, feeling Cole watching.

“Cosette doesn’t like apologies.” Cole sighed.

Solas froze. Only a fraction of a moment but it was enough, enough for a spirit of compassion to feel the twinge of familiarity at the name.

“Solas…” Cole looked up. “How do you know Cosette?”

Magic flared inside him, he wasn’t strong enough yet to block him. He was still recovering and not enough of the artifacts were activated for him to truly do much else. He could not sooner stop the curiosity of a spirit from reading him, especially one so concerned with a loose end he thought he had taken care of.

“Cole…” he turned to stare at the compassion spirit whose face was still. His blue eyes stormy, lit up with anger and a moment his teeth flashed and multiplied like those of a despair demon. “Cole, remember yourself. Remember who you are. You are a spirit of compassion.”

Cole twisted away from Solas, heaving a breath he didn’t need and glowered at Solas. He raised his hand to make Solas forget him, but the ancient elvhen blocked his attempt.

Spirits were so delicate. Cole was especially so. He imagined his friend would be angry if he knew so he took all measures then to block the memories of what he himself had done and plotted to rid himself of a leak.

“Pride.” Cole spat and snapped his teeth together. He grit them with a sharp screech and withdrew, disappearing as he ran from him and from Skyhold. It left Cosette alone, vulnerable but Cole needed time away. Solas didn’t know how he came to be Cole. Didn’t know, but he hurt him. Solas’s memories twisted a knife into him because he almost caused Cosette to experience the same thing as the _real_ Cole. For that, he could never forgive Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2018-07-05 Edit: Hey guys! Just editing to ask you guys to PLEASE please TAKE A BREAK from reading. This is equal parts because this is a dark fic and you need one for your mental health but also for your physical health. Get up, walk around, get some water, take a nap, get some food. I love you, but I really don't want you guys mainlining a long fic and exhausting yourselves. So please, take a necessary break.
> 
>  
> 
> 2018-08-08 Edit: In the MCIT discord we were having a discussion about Spirits/demons in relation to souls and shades. And it is cumbersome to state Spirits/demons as a whole. So I shouted out "CAN WE JUST CALL THEM FADELINGS LIKE IN MY FICS!" Hence Chelbizzaro's use of "fadeling" in the comments. In case anyone is wondering.


	11. Callow

Two Templars invaded the tent she was in. Cosette knew not by what they wore but because she recognized one of them by face. Faint memories of him in templar garb surrounded by red lyrium, made her heart clench in fear. A familiar feeling that hadn’t tormented her since early on in Haven.

“Hello Ser Knights.” Her squeak startled them to still at the entrance. Cosette eyed the former Templars.

Shocked into silence by her appearance and then confused by her greeting, Delrin could do nothing but stare at her. His muscles tense at the gaunt maker’s child before him. Her wide eyes and hollowed cheeks clenched his heart tight.

“Maker’s tears.” He breathed and fully pushed into the tent. Behind him came Fletcher who blanched at her appearance.

“Are you here to kill me?” Her voice was scratchy that quickly became warbled.  

“No.” Delrin asserted as he held his hands up. He was in only simple a tunic and threadbare trousers, as was Fletcher. Neither had any weapons on them. Yet her whole body quivered as even their size was a threat. They were twice - no thrice the size of her. She took up a small portion of the cot she lay in. Tiny, barely a scrap of her was left.

“But...you’re templars.”

“Former.” Delrin attempted to assure her. It did not have the desired effect but made her breath run ragged. Her knobby limbs drew to her chest. Arms that were naught but twigs wrapped around her knees. The nightgown she wore did little to hide her condition as it swam around her loose and exposed her, betraying what little modesty she had. He would have averted his gaze but she was just a child. She must be, given her frailty.

“Like… Samson?”

The name set his teeth on edge. Was Samson responsible for her condition? The General to Corypheus’s Red Templars deserved no mercy.

“No. We are nothing like that monster.” Delrin gestured to a box. “May I sit?”

Her eyes widened as he waited. He didn’t sit, but noticed the flick of her gaze at Fletcher.

“Fletcher, could you go to the kitchen and ask Cookie for what scraps she has and some broth.” Barris told his friend who sent him a questioning look. He urged with a nod and Fletcher slipped out. He could hear briefly the doctor asking questions but they were silenced.

“He’s not a monster.”

Barris still hadn’t sat but she nodded. “Sorry?”

“Samson. He’s not a monster. He’s human. Like you. Like me. Don’t make him out to be something unhuman. It’s insulting to _real_ monsters.”

“Is he the one that did this to you?” Barris leant forward.

“Samson?” She looked shocked. “No...no. It was someone else. Why are you here if not to kill me?”

Barris weighed his response. He could be honest, but if it was a demon…or blood magic.... He shook his head. Eyes closed, he steeled himself. While it had been some months since his last draft of lyrium, he could still feel the pull of the fade when he concentrated. “The surgeon requested our aid.”

“She thinks I’m possessed.”

“Why would she think that?” Barris frowned. She didn’t respond but looked at the box, indicating he could sit. Barris sat and waited her response but she stayed quiet. Her body curled into itself. “Why does the surgeon think you are possessed?” He prompted her, voice impressing his desire for a response.

There were many things he’d encountered since becoming a templar. Apostates, demons, blood mages. All dangers any non-circle placed Knight-Templar would expect to face at least once in their tenure in the Order. He faced all and more at Dragon’s Peak. If any young Knight-Templar was equipped to deal with a possession, it would be him. That did not mean he wished to face one.

“Because I should be dead.”

The admission pulled his shoulders taut, eyes closed for a moment before he squared them. There was only one course of action to be taken. One, he did not feel comfortable undertaking given her status and one that would overstep the fine line placed before himself and his fellows.

“If you would allow me.” Delrin held his hand out to her. Her flinch near broke his resolve but he held steady. “It’s alright, I only wish to perform a test.”

“Will it hurt?”

 _Yes._ Delrin didn’t tell her that but he also wouldn’t lie outright. If he detected anything...it may hurt her. If not, it will be painless. Instead he remained silent on the matter.

“It’s okay if it’s supposed to.” She held one hand out. Delicate and covered in bandages. Delrin tried not to think on the dark crimson and brown stains of them.

Part of Templar training was investigating signs of magic. While Skyhold itself had an aura of magic that was constantly present and on the forefront of his mind. He could feel it even without lyrium. But this would require a closer look, a deeper understanding of sensing wayward magic. He was unsure if he even had any lyrium reserves within himself to perform it properly but it would be the first step.

He unraveled the bandages on her hand and took a deep breath. Senses opened, he gasped at the presence of the fade. Stronger than he’d ever felt it. Almost as if the veil wasn’t present. An unyielding crawling feeling spread across his skin as he pulled at the last dredges of lyrium in him and reached out to her aura, or where her aura should have been. 

Every person had an aura but mages had theirs present over their skin, allowing them use of it when they needed. Non-mages had theirs just below that. They couldn’t use theirs for protection. Sensing it was an inexact skill. Yet this girl, this victim, her aura was deeper than that. _Hidden._

Pulling his hand away, he stared at her. This would require the Commander. 

 

* * *

 

There were days when Cullen regretted leaving the Order and stopping his lyrium drafts. Just as there were days he felt relief that he had. Today was a day he regretted it. Though interestingly, not because the withdrawal symptoms but because of the two bickering mages before him. If this was a Circle, he could have easily quieted them both. But this wasn’t the Circle. This was the Inquisition who not only allied with the mages but promised them freedom. It was not them who needed to be quieted but him. So, he bit his tongue and kept his opinions to himself. Thankfully, one of the mages before him was sensible.

“The remaining Templars under the Commander would do well to have a place of their own.” Vivienne regarded the former Grand Enchanter cooly.

“Are you suggesting the tower in construction should go to them?” Fiona narrowed her eyes.

“More than suggesting, my dear.” Vivienne was a picture of collected calm.  "It would be appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” Fiona’s voice rose high. “Appropriate would be for the tower to be given to the mages.”

Cullen felt a headache coming preemptively. He winced as Fiona’s voice turned shrill.

“Oh.  My mistake. I was under the impression you wanted mages to be free of Circle _Towers._ ” Vivienne rose one elegant eyebrow.

“What I want is for the mages to benefit from a place of residence, a place for them to learn and be amongst their own. To work together and most importantly to govern them - _ourselves._ ”

“Can they not achieve the same where they currently reside? I am merely suggesting that the Templars be the one to receive the tower as it would behoove us to keep them in a cordoned off space.”

“To what purpose? So they can lord over us? So they can drag mages there when they see fit? How would it be different than the circles?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fiona.” Vivienne leveled an indifferent gaze at her. “Rather than the mages being locked away in a tower, it would be the Templars. To keep _them_ in check.”

“And what of the mages? They have no rooms, no beds. Are you saying the Templars should be given room first? They have done nothing to deserve it!”

“The Templars provide a valuable and necessary military service.” Cullen tried to but in, but both ignored him.

“No. However if the mages truly wish for independence and freedom they will have to earn their own rooms on merit and service to the Inquisition. As does everyone else.” Vivienne stared hard at Fiona. “Or perhaps you want them to be given preferential treatment despite agreeing to an _equal_ partnership with the Inquisition.”

“Enough.” Cullen sighed, seeing and sensing the building magic between the two. He blamed Cassandra for their presence in his office. After the mages constantly went to her back in Haven, she now directed them to him. To him they came for every squabble and problem since arriving in Skyhold. “I must agree with Enchanter Vivienne.”

“Of course you would.” Fiona spat.

He leveled a harsh glare at her. “However, the matter of what the tower will be utilized for is not my decision. Nor either of yours. It is for the Inquisitor to choose.” This, Cullen knew. All matters involving the castle rebuilding, the four inner wing towers and eight sentry towers in the mountains were up to the Inquisitor.

“Then perhaps I will speak to the Inquisitor about this. The mages deserve a place of their own, separate and safe rather than scattered around Skyhold.”

“Come now, Fiona. Do you not trust your people that you cannot grant them free roam of Skyhold?” The only indication Vivienne gave of her pleased expression was a tilt of her lips that disappeared as soon as Cullen saw it. Fiona glowered at her but marched out.

“Fiona, the Inquisitor is busy at the moment, but I can forward your request-”

“I will speak no longer to a Templar thug.” Fiona snapped as she barged out of the office.

Under normal circumstances, that would have hurt. Would have bruised his ego and pride in the Order but that is exactly what many Templars had become. So he bit his lip and took the insult.

“Charming as always.” Vivienne regarded the trailing robes of the former Grand Enchanter before nodding to Cullen.

“I should follow her. Thank you for considering our needs as well.” He nodded.

“My concern wasn’t in Templar needs,” Vivienne trailed after Fiona. “It was in the potential for abuse.”

 _That hurt_. Not because it was false, but because it was true. Cullen met the reality of the statement head on. Even he was not innocent of such a crime.

Vivienne and he caught up to Fiona in the Grand Hall as she waited outside of Lady Montilyet’s office. She had knocked and was waiting, politely. Vivienne gracefully breezed past her and into the office.

“You’ll have to excuse our intrusion, Inquisitor. Ambassador.” Vivienne entered the Ambassador’s office, noting Dorian’s presence as well. “Dorian. I hope there is no slight taken.”

“No slight taken.” Dorian smirked at her as he rose. “That aside, I believe our discussion is closed anyway. Inquisitor, Josie. Thank you dearly.” He addressed the two.

“Ah. Remember, he must be accompanied by a Templar.” Lavellan reminded Dorian.

“Pardon, who must be accompanied?” Cullen asked as he closed the door behind him.

“I’ll tell you over chess later.” Dorian smiled. “Perhaps, with tea as well?” Dorian whispered low to Cullen who smirked.

“Will you be starting with your left knight again?” Cullen teased. “If so, the game will be over before the tea can even be served.”

Dorian squinted. “Just watch, Commander. I will not only beat you with that starting piece but I will do so before the tea has cooled enough to drink.”

“I would be impressed to see you do so.” Cullen laughed as Dorian smirked and left the room. Dorian’s presence and camaraderie was a balm to the headache that had worked it’s way into his temples. It soothed the annoyance just in that small interaction but all too quickly as he moved toward Fiona and Vivienne, who were giving their points for and against the Templars being given the tower, it returned.

Keeping up his veneer of professionalism, he set his shaking hand on the pummel of his sword and listened intently once again as they made their case.

“The mages aided the Inquisition in sealing the breach and fought against the red _templars,_ ” Fiona gave a pointed look at Cullen “that invaded Haven. We have more than earned our place and right to the tower. You made us your allies, not your conscripts.”

“Was your aid in sealing the breach not payment for aiding your ill-advised move to indenture yourself to Tevinter magisters?” Vivienne pointed out.

“Yes.” Fiona admitted.

“Then should it not stand to reason that the mages still have yet to _earn_ their placement in Skyhold?” Vivienne asked the Inquisitor.

“That is true.” Lavellan agreed. “I offered an open alliance to the mages and nothing is free for anyone in the Inquisition.”

Vivienne didn’t look smug, but Cullen thought the shift in stance indicated so.

“However, the templars have yet to prove themselves loyal to the Inquisition in the same way the mages.” Lavellan added.

“What?” Cullen stepped forward. “The Templars have more than done so, Inquisitor.”

“Simply abstaining from lyrium does not prove their loyalty.” Lavellan muttered as she signed a few documents Josephine had handed her. “And as I’ve learned many of those templars have left our ranks. Desertion seems to be a common problem for much of the Order.”

“Only because they are going through withdrawals with no support or treatment save for themselves. They are also worked to nigh exhaustion.” Cullen’s teeth grit, keeping his tone level. For the Inquisitor to simply brush aside the toils of the Templars, it angered him. But he kept it in check. She was the Inquisitor.  

Fiona faltered in this revelation of how far the Templars had been pushed.

“And that was to prove they are not under Corypheus’s hold. Yet they have provided nothing to prove their loyalty, Commander,” Lavellan shrugged.

“Inquisitor, if I may?” Vivienne waited for Lavellan to look up. “The templars are a danger not just to the greater populace but to mages as well. If they have the tower, we can keep better watch of them, their movements, rather than allowing them to run free in Skyhold.”

“It would certainly keep them under the Inquisition’s hold if the tower was a holding facility for them.” Lavellan considered this, looking between the two mages and then finally at Cullen. “What do you think, Commander?” Her large eyes turned directly on him.

Before, in Haven, those same eyes had sent him flirtatious looks and glances. Batted as she teased him for the vows he hadn’t taken. Now they were hard, unforgiving. There was a time when he would have gazed at her lips, wondering if _maybe_ , before pushing the thought away. She was the Herald of Andraste, he should not think of her in such manner. Yet he couldn’t help himself as those same thoughts filtered through now. He gulped.

“The Templars would be easier to keep check of if they were in one central location. Especially those who are still taking lyrium.” Cullen added.

“Lady Montilyet?” Lavellan turned to Montilyet who had been silent the entire time.

“I believe the mages may flourish more readily if under familiar circumstances.” Josephine added.

“Familiar circumstances?” Fiona asked.

“Is that not your goal? To put them in a familiar atmosphere to increase their productivity? Morale has been low amongst the mages. Many lack inspiration and proper motivation.” Josephine pulled a stack of parchments from her desk. “I understand Henlin has expressed concern over whether he would be considered an asset as he was not harrowed before the rebellion. Is this why you wish to establish the tower as an impromptu Circle?”

Vivienne did smirk then, or Cullen thinks so. He wasn’t sure and if he asked, she would deny it.

“I- no.” Fiona blinked. “I was simply hoping their accommodations would be improved in the tower. Many mages have submitted complaints of sharing rooms with-”

“Commoners? Soldiers? Servants?” Vivienne finished for her. Fiona narrowed her eyes at her. “They are sharing quarters because we do not have the resources available nor the luxury of a Circle tower to afford a single room for each.”

“And the tower will not be quite so big as I believe you are imagining, Grand Enchanter.” Josephine pulled a parchment up. “It will be barely twice as large as a sentry tower. Perhaps fifty or so mages can be located there comfortably. Unless you wish to purpose the tower as a schoolhouse for the mage children?”

“If need be.” Fiona shot back.

“Then it’s settled.” Lavellan nodded. “The tower will be used to further the mages’ education. Fiona, if you could devise a list of supplies and run them by Requisitions, we can ensure that when the tower is complete you can begin training the mages.”

“And what of the templars?” Cullen asked. Now he was perturbed. The needs of the Templars were pushed aside once again. This was not the first time he’s brought up the situation, how many of those undergoing withdrawing kept leaving. He feared they would get reports of them joining Samson’s ranks if only because it would prove their suspicions right.  

“They can remain in the barracks with the rest of the military.” Lavellan brushed off. “Now if that is all.” The Inquisitor wasn’t asking.

They left the Ambassador’s office. Fiona not quite as smug but more certain of her and the mages’ position in the Inquisition.

“Vivienne. Commander.” Fiona nodded to them both and returned to the library where most of the upper echelon of mages lingered and loitered.

“I fear the Inquisitor has not considered the danger mages will be in if they are truly to be free of the circle.” Vivienne tutted. “They will need the Templars.”

“I agree.” Cullen stated. He was relieved she felt the same.

“Commander.” Delrin Barris approached the both of them. His movements were disciplined despite all this time without lyrium, but even Cullen could see the exhaustion evident in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands before he consciously stilled them. Barris’s gaze flicked to Vivienne, uncertain before bowing his head. “Enchanter Vivienne.”

“Barris. Perhaps we should move this to a more private location?” Cullen was tense, aware of the plights of his brothers. “If you’ll excuse us.”

“Actually, I think it would be best if you come as well, Enchanter.” Barris spoke up and out of turn. “It involves a mage in need of aid.”


	12. Loose

Little in this world disturbed Madame de Fer. She was the Iron Lady. Reviled. Revered. Respected. She clawed her way to her position as First Enchanter. She endured the Circle, under scrutiny not only by Templars for her magic but also for the color of her skin. _Rivaini witch_ was uttered no more than once before they learned their place. She was Marcher —  _was_ Marcher. Now Orlesian through fine training and strength of will. Vivienne lived the struggle in a world and system not designed nor ready for people like her. She _made_ them ready. She started from a place of disadvantage and rose and bloomed with deadly thorns, a spark of ice, and her will. Nothing would ever disturb her.

Not even a girl who reminded her of an old home in Wycome. Of familiar gaunt cheeks, that if she blinked she could taste the thick viscous saliva and acid on her tongue from not eating for days - _weeks._ The echoes of grumbles and pains of hunger as she knew not when her next meal would be. No, none of this disturbed her.

It was a fact that people like her will face. _Have_ faced. The world skewed against them. It did not mean she was not sympathetic, not empathetic, and not compassionate. But there was compassion and then there was enabling.

Vivienne’s polished veneer of will and composure did not so much as chip. But for the briefest of moments a single tear welled up in her eye as she stared at the girl —  _no_ woman. As she was neither alone nor in the privacy of her Duke Bastien’s quarters, the tear disappeared before it could form.

The woman before her was a wispy waif like thing. Most of her hair was gone, torn, shorn or ripped; bleached with malnutrition. Dark skin denoting her own Rivaini ancestry but sallow and greyed from lack of sun and proper sustenance. Her body curled under the furs and blankets. Dark brown and purple - almost black - welts and scars dotted her scalp and the back of her neck. The sharp jutting edge contour of her shoulders and spine left little to guesswork.

The woman’s Templar watcher, Fletcher, rose up alarmed at Vivienne’s entrance until she sent a chilling look his way.  She noted his feeble attempt to get this young woman to eat. It would do little given the state she was in.

She raised her chin and stepped into the tent ahead of Cullen. She ignored the squalor, the stench of pestilence, and lingering death. As she grew closer to the woman, the veil stretched around her. She sent a subtle pulse of magic meant to scan her.

Vivienne’s magic always performed in a controlled manner and was always executed with perfection. But these were not usual circumstances. Much of Skyhold’s veil was thin but around here twas thin and porous; as though one wrong move and it would rip at a sudden snap.  Wisps filtered in and out around her. Many clung close to her, wrapping around her fingertip. While she was familiar with their presence, seeing them was another matter. At least the Templars could not see them.

The burst of magic allowed Vivienne to see the woman as a mirrored wispy form. It should have only displayed the humors but it was far more powerful than she anticipated. Likely due to the nature of the veil around her. She could see the veins, and magical channels and conduits inside her. The magic emulated what was happening inside, pulsing, pulling in slow movements showing where most of her mana and magic lay. Almost none of it was in her limbs.

Vivienne was no spirit healer. Her talents lay in the alchemical arts of healing yet it required an understanding of what magic could and couldn’t do to aid the body. The Chantry forbade study of cadavers beyond cursory magical examination. Even then they allowed it under the strictest of confidences. The view her magic was allowing her to observe was such a method. Yet she hadn't intended on it.

“Her aura is not hidden.” Vivienne twisted the magical mirror to show where the aura was, carefully with the gentlest touch of magic to account for the abundance of access to the fade.  Shrunken and pulled tight against her more important organs for thought, feeling, and memory was her aura. “Her aura has been retracted, along with much of her mana.”

“Retracted?” Fletcher rooted to his spot to afford the woman privacy. “Mages can do such a thing?”

“Most mages can manipulate their aura yes. But only to heal minor injuries or solidified into a barrier. But this…” Vivienne examined the complexity of the retracted aura. This was a method she had only ever studied in theory. Not in practice. No one ever practiced it. At least not in the south.

Vivienne pulled the blankets up to further examine the damage on the woman. It was no wonder she slept. Malnourished and deprived of mana save to her most vital humors. None of the life giving magic that encompassed everything could bleed through her veins as it should. Yes the woman was a mage, and as a mage she would have healed minor injuries where her aura surrounded. All apprentices learned a basic heal spell by moving the aura to concentrate and surround the injury and infusing it with healing magics. But that was at a small scale and this encompassed her whole body. It required a skilled and sophisticated mage. The woman could not have done this to herself.

“Her retracted aura has exacerbated her undernourishment restricting the distribution of ingested sustenance. Halting all attempts at healing.” Vivienne summarized. "We will need to manipulate her aura back into it's natural state.  But I fear it may be a shock and could be more detrimental to her health."

“Why are we only now being informed of this.” Cullen turned on the Surgeon. “She requires magical healing.”

“M-my apologies, Commander. I-I was brought in by the Charger’s medic. He was concerned he could not help her.” Surgeon Galen ducked her head. “So… she is not possessed? Or an abomination?” The question was not unusual. The surgeon was a student of science. She knew little of magical ailments and the physical harm magic could cause on the body. Given that lack of knowledge, it was no wonder she believed the woman should be dead which led to her assumption of abomination.

“Even the most powerful of demons have moderate to low tolerance for pain. When attacked with even the slightest bit of provocation or cornered, they present themselves for who they are. If she had been an abomination, the demon would have shown long before she ended up in the state she is in.” Barris spoke solemn with a heavy heart of experience. “If she had been an abomination, she isn't anymore now. The demon would have taken one look at her weak form and abandoned her to die.”

“Oh thank the maker.” The surgeon rested a hand on her forehead and sat further from the tent.

Vivienne’s lips pursed. It was one explanation.

“I...learned a great deal from my investigations at Dragon’s Peak, ser.” Delrin squinted but did not elaborate further.

“Noted.”

“It still leaves a bigger problem.” Vivienne smoothed the blanket down on the woman as she shivered. “The aura manipulation method is a school of Magic originating in Tevinter. Yet most Tevinter mages would not utilize it in this manner.”

“What manner was this used?”

Vivienne would not say outloud, not with prying eyes and ears. She gave a pointed look at the surgeon and two former Templars. Cullen understood and stepped toward the cot.

“It is a manner meant to preserve and prolong life force to lengthen how much blood can be drawn.” Vivienne did not say this lightly. The implications of the technique were harrowing to say the least. It made her sick to even think there may be a blood mage roaming the halls of Skyhold. She could only imagine what Cullen was going through given how he’d frozen in spot.

It was no secret what happened at Kinloch Hold during the Blight. A tragedy that so many mages turned into thralls by one of their superiors. But Kinloch Hold had been the most lenient of all Circles and it became a cautionary tale.

Vivienne knew better than to medically check on Cullen. She’d seen the signs of lyrium withdrawal in Haven. While he may be better off than others having grown used to it, she let the lion be. Even with the withdrawal, a shaken former Templar could still exhibit and utilize Templar abilities. It was dangerous. So she kept close eye of him. His pallid complexion greying further, the dilation of his pupils and rapid movement of his eyes, the sheen of sweat and the tightening grip of his sword.

“Cullen.” Vivienne pitched her voice low, gentle and sweet. His rapid eye movement stilled and he steeled himself with a breath. “We do not want the grander Skyhold populace to panic with this information.” Vivienne was cautious, aware of the tightening his hold on the pommel of his sword.

“Yes.” His nod was less than reassuring.

“Barris, was it?” Vivienne drew the Templar’s attention.

“Ma’am?”

“Stand guard of this tent. No one goes in without my or the Commander’s approval.” She ordered.

Delrin faltered, looking at Cullen who felt his gaze.

“Do as the Enchanter says.” Cullen managed out, finding himself.

Good he was coming back. Vivienne allowed him to take control again.

“Ser.” Barris touched his fist to his chest.

“Fletcher.” Cullen turned toward the young man. “Inform Fiona I require-” Cullen took a breath and corrected his vernacular. There were no circles and Fiona was not his charge in a circle and he should not _require_ her presence anywhere. “Tell Fiona I _request_ her presence in my office. There is a matter that concerns one of her mages.”

“Is that wise?” Vivienne checked on the woman again. Her body shivered so she laid a warming glyph on the blankets.  “Given our most recent encounter with the former Grand Enchanter, I do not believe she will be quite as forthcoming. She will not sit idly by as you investigate her people for the culprit.”

“That is why I will not be investigating the mages. I am asking for one mage in particular.” Cullen said as they both stepped outside of the tent. Cullen froze in the courtyard, staring at all the dark corners. They would have to consult Leliana about the movements of the mages. Perhaps one of her spies saw something.

“Which mage is that?”

“A mage I knew in Kinloch Hold.”

* * *

**  
Frostback Mountains**

9:40 Satinalia

It was a bitter Satinalia Cullen woke to. The Frostbacks were harsh, chilling him to the very bone, making the frigid pain of withdrawal that much worse. He couldn’t decide whether this was better or worse than the sway and splash of the ocean that the boat ride from Kirkwall to Ferelden held. At least the diminishing view of the City of Chains had quelled any seasickness and nerves about whether he did the right thing.

He’d brought with him a contingent of Templars he knew and trusted. Withdrawing their presence from the decimated remains of Kirkwall. Knight Captain Rylen had been one of them to follow in his footsteps. Cullen hadn’t ordered any of them to join him. Just as joining the Inquisition was his choice, he gave his men a choice as well.

On the morning of his departure, he was relieved to see Rylen at the docks. Accompanying him was many of the Templars from Starkhaven’s old Circle as well as many of Kirkwall’s. He wouldn’t be alone. Especially with his next decision.

He traveled with the philter at all times. Packed away in a box with refined lyrium ready at a moment’s notice at his side. Yet...he did not take it. Cullen would endure.

When he told Cassandra of his choice, she reminded him of the effects. Effects he knew all too well from brothers and sisters discharged from the Order. He’d seen them in Kirkwall. Shadows of what they used to be, but free of lyrium’s clutches and free of the Order. They were forced to withdraw, forced to go underground, to find other means of culling the addiction.

He wasn’t forced to do anything. Not this time. It was his choice.

They were a week off from Haven’s first forward camp. The Inquisition’s forces were small, but they had managed to clear the surrounding area of both Templar and Mage fighting. But they would need more. Especially if the Divine’s Conclave did not end well. Which by Sister Leliana and Seeker Cassandra’s attitudes, they did not have high hopes for it succeeding. The Inquisition was the end plan disguised as a contingency plan. The writ was completed. All that was left was the formality. Then they could begin openly recruiting.

The cold frostburn of morning bit at his cheeks. This was his homeland. His decimated home village was further south and reached temperatures colder than this. It was the familiar embrace of a proper Ferelden winter.

“Andraste’s ass, my piss nearly froze midstream.” Varric swore as he stumbled out of the bushes. His jacket pulled closer and tight. Yet he wouldn’t tie up his shirt. He blew his breath into his leather gloves. “I’m freezing my tits off.”

“Perhaps you should wear a better shirt, Varric.” Leliana teased from across the camp.

“And deprive the world of this magnificent chest?”

“You think this is cold, just wait until First Day.” Cullen smirked as he prepared the rest of camp as Cassandra and the other templars readied the horses and carriage. “Winter’s last gasp until Wintersend. You wouldn’t be wandering the countryside without a scarf.”

“Wouldn’t be wandering the mountainside if I had a choice.” Varric sighed as he tried to help, but one sour look from Cassandra and he was shuffled off into a wagon.

They made quick work, given several of the axles had frosted over night. Nothing a few buckets of warmed water didn’t fix and then they were off. The trek was slow as they were also transporting supplies as well as their - hopeful - new recruits. There were only enough horses to pull the wagons so most of the contingent walked alongside them. Cullen marched ahead with Cassandra and Leliana.

“The camps will need to be expanded. I can begin drills and formations to have us ready in a few weeks.” Cullen ran through potential schedules he would need to set up. Tests and measurements of the troops the Inquisition already had.

“You are adjusting to your new position well, Cullen.” Leliana’s tone was teasing but he wasn’t sure at what.

“I will be able to adjust more accordingly once I see the state of the Inquisition’s military.” Cullen lowered his chin. He knew of Sister Leliana only for her presence beside the Hero of Ferelden and then during her investigation of the mage uprising related to Hawke in Kirkwall. Their acquaintanceship was brief but apparently enough that the Nightingale felt comfortable teasing him. Cullen looked across their line at her to see her attention drawn forward.

“What is it?” Cassandra halted the march. Carriage and caravans behind them coming to a standstill at her command. Leliana said nothing, merely pointed at a figure in the distance, running at them.

“What are they shouting?”

“I don’t know.” Leliana stepped forward.

With a mechanical click, Varric stepped up beside them. Bianca raised and his sight pointed at the running figure.

“Don’t shoot.”

“I have a scope, I can get a closer look.” Varric explained. “And maybe read her lips.”

“Her?”

“Uh...Seeker. Curly, you might want to move us back.”

“What is it?”

“GET BACK! IT’S A TRAP!” The holler rose up as the girl ran, only for a firebolt to come barreling out of the bushes at her. She went flying backward from the force.

“Soldiers!” Cullen and Cassandra yelled and quickly the contingent came forward. Cassandra glanced at him but bit her tongue as he took charge. He directed soldiers to flank both sides of the caravan and wagons, to protect the drivers.  They drew their swords and raised their shields.

Leliana’s scouts were quick into formation as a dozen rebel mages revealed themselves, firing up onto the cliffside they were on. But rather than hitting them, it arched over head toward the cliff where several logs had been tethered. Their tethers released destroyed half of their back supply wagon. Six mages revealed themselves from above and those below came upwards with a yell.

Archers were quick to pick the ones below off but those with an above advantage were a nuisance. They hailed fire on them, startling the horses.

“Take cover!” Cullen shouted to everyone, his shield raised as a barrage of firestorm rained down. He angled his shield, deflecting an ice spray but a turbulent wind centered around them. Thunder roared and lightning began to crash.

“Storm of the century.” Leliana spat as she ducked behind the cover, looking around once — twice before she took aim and shot to the right of the mage responsible. The arrow veered in the wind, plunging into the mage before they could deflect. They fell over but it was too late. “Grab hold of something!”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The winds howled as the rest of the spell took effect, filling the area in a small swirling vortex. It was lucky the wagons were so heavily laden, but unlucky for them, the mages could move unaffected in the midst of the artificial storm. A rebel mage grew close holding only the hilt of a sword. Their eyes flashed white and a fade sword came out as they disappeared from view. Their presence invisible.

“Knight Enchanter!” Cassandra roared and kicked at thin air. The cloaked mage stumbled, their magic disrupted as her sword glowed blue and her off hand reached toward the mage who stilled in pain. Their veins became more prominent as light and heat soared through them until they let out a wail before falling over. Cassandra did not stop there. She pulled heavy chain from her side and swung its end before throwing it at another mage. It clamped around their arm tight enough to injure and she yanked them close before kicking them down and slicing their throat. “Cullen, behind you!” She roared.

Cullen raised his shield and caught the blade of another Knight Enchanter. He had never had the pleasure of fighting one of the Chantry’s elite mages but to see them here, as rebels. It was a testament to the sorry state of the world. That even such trusted mages would rebel. What had happened that made them so mad with power?

Mettle against fade-iron, he fought them, but they pulled back, fade stepping to dodge each blow. With the howling winds and the need to be anchored, he could not move without risk of losing his footing.

The lyrium bottle at his belt called to him. With a single draft he could disrupt the magic at large, clear the air and finish this apostate off. Gritting his teeth, he met them as they fluttered around him to the left then they fade stepped through him to catch his back but he was prepared. But then they targeted his legs. His greaves took the blunt but he was now on one knee. “Blasted apostate.” He growled and watched as they laughed and reappeared to his right, then to his left again.

 _Wait._ He blocked their blow on the left, blocking their right and spun to catch the swipe from behind. Let his shield fell and used the knife from his boot to catch the apostate between the ribs. Knight Enchanters were trained to use their magic as their armor, leaving them defenseless to close quarters attacks. He twisted the knife until they screamed. They staggered back to retreat but his shield was raised and brought down in a bash.

With renewed confidence he charged at the next one. Ending up back to back with Cassandra. She would yank the apostates close with her chain and he would bash them with his shield. He’d block projectiles and she would deal the killing blow.

When the battle finished, he sheathed his sword to a thunderous applause from the contingent.

“Commander.” Rylen stepped forward from the remains of the battle the other men had fought.

“It’s Knight-Capt-” Cullen corrected yet Rylen rose a brow. This was not Kirkwall. He was no longer in the order.

“ _Commander._ ” Rylen reiterated as he raised his fist and placed it in the center of his chest. The other soldiers and Templars from Kirkwall and Starkhaven did the same. The title had caught Cullen off guard.

“Status report, Rylen.” Cullen nodded.

“The back wagon has been damaged, but we can salvage a replacement axle with time. One of the horses has fled but we have our best scout retrieving them.”

“Are there any injuries?”

“A few scraps but nothing to slow us down.” Rylen reported.

“Good. Have the men repair the wagon, and see about calming the rest of the horses.” Cullen turned.

“And the girl?”

 _Girl?_ Cullen meant to ask but Cassandra had returned from the valley below with a woman in her arms. Rylen indicated he had meant her.

“Allow us to handle her. Good work.” Cullen dismissed him.

“Are you injured?” Cassandra asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I think that fireball just grazed me.” The woman who had warned them of the trap spoke with a brutish sort of accent, like those of the southern Free Marcher cities — like a Kirkwaller. Yet her words were well punctuated like a noble. He didn't recognize her.

Cassandra touched the singed sleeve of her dress that exposed burnt flesh. “Ouch. Okay, yeah I lied. I am _definitely_ injured.”

“This should help.” Leliana wrapped the wound with a bandage slathered in poultice. 

“Oh… oooh yeah that does help. Thank you.” Her expression was one of recognition as she addressed Leliana and looked at Cassandra and himself. Did he know her? 

A scout brought a blanket from their stores to her. She was dressed in light clothing that would not suffice in the coming winter.

“Oh no thanks. It’s not that cold. This is like a warm spring day.” Her wide thick lips spread into a relieved smile with equally large eyes — almost elven. Though she seemed unfazed by the cold, her complexion turned russet with the bite of winter across her cheekbones and nose where a smattering of dark freckles contrasted against her tawny brown skin.  “I’m Cosette by the way.”

“I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. This is Sister Leliana and Commander Cullen.”  If possible, her smile widened even further at their introductions.

“Oh! Before I forget, there are explosive barrels ahead. You might want to send someone to disarm those.”

Leliana pulled away, calling her best scouts to set about doing that.

“Without your warning we may have suffered further damages and injuries. Thank you.” Cullen nodded to her. She was a woman, yet the smooth unmarred lines of her face, the youth in them. Further adding to his guess that she was noble or well learned. 

He didn't recognize her. But that was no surprise as he didn't dedicate the names and faces of noble Kirkwallers to memory. Perhaps Varric would be better suited? 

“Wish I’d gotten to you sooner.” Cosette looked at the pile of logs that had damaged the back wagon. Her hand ran through her tightly curled hair.

“How did you know it was a trap?” Cassandra asked.

“They got the caravan I was traveling with two weeks ago. I’ve been watching them set up and take out other travelers too. Most of them were outnumbered and...”  Cosette frowned. “Few survived.”  Her expression became tight and her smile faltered. “But those that did, we managed to get them to safety.”

“We?” Cullen asked.

Not far into the valley there was a cave that Cosette and her fellow travelers had managed to hide from the rebel mages.  Cosette led them there.

“There’s about twenty of us in total. Only two others from the caravan I was traveling with. There was a few tranquil we managed to save before the rebel mages could kill them. Poor things were obediently sitting there waiting for death.” Cosette sighed as she ducked under a branch. “Thankfully the mage they traveled with offered enough of a distraction for us to save them.”

Cullen and Cassandra shared a look. Leliana had remained behind while they followed Cosette. Cullen’s grip on his sword tightened, his remnant Templar senses prickled in the presence of magic. It could be residue from the fight or it could be...

They came upon the cave but it held a magical barrier covering the entrance.

“Levyn!” Cosette called while knocking her fist against the barrier. Light rippled from her touch.  “Levyn! Let the barrier down!”

“Cosette! I told you not to spy on them. But you didn’t listen, you foolish girl-” Came a rumbling pale peach skinned cranky bearded mage as the barrier fizzled out. He stepped out with the help of his staff and froze upon seeing Cullen. There was something familiar about him.

His staff burst into flames as he thrust his hand forward. “Templar!”

Cullen hefted his shield up to block and Cassandra charged up a disrupt field.

“WOAH WOAH JOWAN WAIT!” Cosette threw herself in front of Cassandra as if to protect her.  “They are friendly!”

 _Jowan?_ Cullen stoppered at the name and looked at the bearded mage a second time. The hairs on the back of his neck rising. The last few weeks he’d spent at Kinloch Hold had been filled with clerical duties, filing away all the missing or dead mages. Jowan was a missing mage. A missing _blood mage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter makes it clear that Cosette is a POC. If not, here is me stating it. Cosette is POC. She isn't white. I picked the name Cosette because of Les Mis and how the character was basically treated as this "innocent" abused by people she trusted. I'm mirroring some of the symbols and themes from Les Mis, and subverting some of the others with regard to Cosette.
> 
> If you don't like Vivienne but like this story, better get super comfortable with her being around. I adore her and she will be a main feature going forward. Almost as integral as Cole will be.
> 
> Cosette is a mage. Fret not, she won't be super powerful like other mage MCITs end up being. I mean she just arrived in Thedas and has had little study of magic. No way could she compete, let alone surpass those who have studied their entire lives.
> 
> Anyway that's it. Thanks for reading and commenting guys!


	13. Hope

Skyhold’s courtyard was filled with doves. Clusters of bevies perched on the ramparts overlooking the courtyard. They fluttered. They landed on helmets, perched on cots, and hovered near supply wagons coming in and out.

Yet no one saw them. No one, save for Solas.

Doves were creatures of good omens. They brought hope and peace. They represented the pure and innocent of this world. They were birds with an instinct of self-sacrifice, starving themselves to allow their progeny to be born.

Yet their presence offered only a sense of foreboding as he peered down at the courtyard. They swerved their gazes to stare up at him. All peeping, flutter, and movement stopped. They did not move, merely watched.

These were not doves but rather manifestations of wisps. Most mages could hardly notice wisps that filtered through the veil upon casting a spell. Their brief existence beyond the veil filled with awe at the mage who aided their passage. The wisps thought the mage their maker, basking in the song of their magic. Some skilled mages knew of their existence and utilized them. Like Dorian for instance. He took wisps, fractions of a fragment of a figment and broke them, pulling and pushing them into the dead to control them. Those wisps could have become spirits over time but Dorian broke them before they had the chance. Other mages like Vivienne thought them a nuisance, an unfortunate side effect of using magic and so ignored them best she could.

But even they couldn’t see them manifested in a form beyond a shapeless orb. It was rare for a wisp to even have a form but when they did it was simple. Small creatures like bugs, insects. For a time the Avvar thought sprites were wisps with form.

“Hmm.” Solas approached and they came alive. They shrieked as they swarmed the courtyard, creating a barrier. Talons sharp and beaks dripping with rancorous desire. They were coordinated, as though they were one entity.

Someone projected this form on the wisps, controlling them.

Solas pulled back from the fade as he opened his eyes. Sitting up on the couch in the rotunda, he took a deep breath.

“Dirthara-ma.” He swore.

The human possessed a wealth of foreknowledge and understanding of Thedas that few did. Knowledge of the past, present and future granted her an outsider’s perspective. So it was a given she lacked the understanding of someone involved with Thedas and the necessity of certain actions and why access to her knowledge was required for the survival of the People.

It took some convincing and interrogating to show her obligation to this world. He would always be thankful for her warning about Wisdom but he wanted more.

He wished to glean more information but he could not so easily approach the human as he had in Haven, even whilst disguised. There were too many eyes with a Templar guard, surgeon, the sick, and Leliana’s spies. Including one who had been a nuisance since arriving back in Skyhold.

The Black Hart eluded him and alluded his spies and yet still managed to sabotage his efforts. How she did so...he suspected the human revealed something to the Spymaster. Clearly his efforts to confuse hadn’t been successful. It was a pity his agent couldn’t kill her, even if all that knowledge would have been lost.

He’d meant to investigate, to get close enough to the human. He hoped to interrogate her as he had before, but she not only possessed Templar guards but also protectors in the fade. It made things vastly more difficult.

What was more curious was he hadn’t sensed them when he walked through the courtyard on his return to Skyhold. Either they were a new addition or he was too weak still. No matter, the more time he spent in Skyhold, the more time exposed to the fade, the faster he recuperated.

In the meanwhile, he needed eyes on the human. Yet all of his agents were occupied. It was a pity his closest spy to Leliana had been killed. Butler would have been useful.

With closed eyes, he again walked the dreams of the inhabitants of Skyhold. Light and warm, the fade here was always welcoming. It was not his home, but it’s environment was familiar. Though the Inquisition worked to repair the castle, the castle’s reflection in the Fade was not so damaged. Doors in Skyhold that led nowhere, led to rooms that only existed in the Fade. Hallways, towers, and rooms. Skyhold’s other half lay beyond the veil.

Whole wings of the castle floated amidst the mountains, waterfalls flowed up and the darkness illuminated the light. Solas ached for a time where this was reality, where this flowing world was subject to the machinations of imagination and perception. One day, the world will be returned to as it was.

For now…he ignored the courtyard, already hearing the flutter of wings, and meandered toward the sleeping quarters of the newest refugees to join the Inquisition. A single bright elf, recently recruited from Crestwood. She had no vallaslin, taught she had no magical talent, and had lost her home to the undead. She had no family, no ties, and no loyalty. Not even to the Inquisition. But she ached for a cause. She was perfect. _Wonderful_.

The fade rippled around him as he shed one mask for another. His skin darkened, his hair grew into thick dreadlocks. The wolfjaw hanging from his neck became a wolf skull. He donned it as a helm.

“Jana.” Solas called to the elf, kneeling beside her sleeping form. “ _The Dread Wolf awaits to guide you."_

She awoke eyes wide and fearful at the looming wolf before her.

“ _Never fear, child_.” He cooed, peering at her from behind the helm. Eyes aglow as his hand caressed her aura. It was weak, only because they made her believe she was so.

“Who… what? Where who are you?” Jana looked around, seeing the world as is for a moment before it twisted.

Solas frowned.

“Shh… _seek truth in a forgotten land deep within your heart._ ”

“This is the fade…” Jana scrambled away, her breath heaving as she gaped at him. “You’re…” The world twisted. Solas growled watching as floating castles lowered. A crack in the sky opened a rift.

“ _Child._ ” He growled, and enforced more of himself to the world. His form bigger, larger, and more imposing. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to, but the Chantry had corrupted many.

“No...no!” Jana’s voice became small as he loomed. He stepped toward her, she ran.

With a roll of his eyes, the helm became flesh and fur. His body hunched on all fours as he chased her. Paws dug into the air as he avoided all obstacles she believed would also slow him. It did not.

“ _Child."_  He howled and landed behind her when she rounded into a dead end. Her shriek echoed around them. This was mostly his domain, no one would hear. He loomed closer as she pressed into a wall.

“O maker, hear my cry.” She fell to her knees, praying with the Chant. Of all things.

“ _I’m sorry, child. I did not intend for you to fear me."_  He raised his paws, transforming them into hands. The helm pulling back to reveal a face. A friendly one, if only to her. The gesture stilled her.

“Ir? Aba...Abelas?” She fumbled over the word like a newborn baby. She practically was. “Ir...Abelas.”  She felt the rhythm and spoke the old language as it called to her. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

“Ir tela’ena glandival, vir amin tel’hanin. Ir tela las ir fen halam…” Solas crooned and sang.

Jana stared transfixed at the lullaby. She knew it from long ago. Sang to her by her mother. But who was he?

“Vir am’tela’elvahen.” Jana finished the lullaby.

“Na melana sahlin.” Solas reached one hand out to her. “Mana, ma halani.”

She took it.

 

* * *

 

“Grand Enchanter, Cullen has sent another request for your presence. Immediately.” Lysas held the missive out to Fiona.

She was braced against the desk, poring over the schedules of all two hundred mages under her, with more coming everyday. Branded as apostates upon rebelling, mages from every circle were travelling to Skyhold to join the Inquisition as word was released that they were considered equal allies.

It also meant Fiona was looked up to as a Grand Enchanter despite that no longer being her title. Yet many mages were remiss to stop using the title. There were, however, some mages who easily did not use that title. The Loyalist mages under Vivienne.

“Send the same response as before.” Fiona brushed it off. She had no desire to speak with the Commander. If he truly needed her for something he could request it of the Inquisitor or Sister Leliana. At least they granted her the respect she deserved.

“Has Ellendra sent word?” Fiona looked up at Lysas now.

“There was a delay in a scouting mission to Sahrnia. Ellendra was the only one to make it to the forward camp, the others however perished. She is waiting with Lace Harding for more scouts before continuing with the survey.” Lysas reported.

“What happened?” Fiona looked up.

“Sister Leliana wouldn’t provide the full report.”

“What?” Fiona walked toward Lysas, snatching the missive. There was little else on the attack. “Unbelievable.” She huffed and turned toward the hallway that would lead outwards.

“Fiona…” Lysas called.

“Stay behind. I will handle this.” She stomped along the ramparts toward the rookery. The harsh mountain wind blew her robes and chilled her. Even if it was in the midst of spring, way up here it was still quite chilly.

Fiona burst into the rookery, startling the birds on the lower level. There was an elven scout at a desk amidst the startled cawing ravens, tying a missive to a crow’s leg. He looked at Fiona once before letting the bird fly.

“The rookery is off limits.” The scout spoke evenly and with no emotion. The sunburst mark on his forehead sent a chill down her spine.

“Is Sister Leliana in?” Fiona peered up into the rookery, to see if the Spymaster was at the top level.

“The rookery is off limits.” The scout reiterated. His dead eye stare bore into Fiona.

“I wish to speak with Leliana-”

“The rookery is off limits.”

“Do you say nothing else?” Fiona hissed.

The scout paused, staring at her. “The rookery is off limits.”

“Useless.” Fiona ignored him and went right for the stairs. She began to ascend but a grip on her upper arms had her pausing. Caught off guard the Tranquil Scout yanked her from the stairs and spun them. He slammed her onto the table, one hand gripping her wrists.

“The rookery is off limits.” He stated.

“Let me go!” Fiona screeched, pulling magic around her to push him off.

“Butler.” Leliana called from the top floor. “Let her up.”

Butler being the Tranquil scout released her and stepped away.

Fiona glowered, healing pulses at her wrists where a bruise was beginning to form. She drew herself further from Butler who tracked her movements toward the stairs.

“He won’t hurt you.” Leliana called as she stepped from the railing.

Fiona was less than convinced as she climbed the stairs slow enough to watch Butler but as soon as she stepped up he returned to tying missives to the birds.

“I was unaware you had a former mage as a scout.” Fiona stepped to the top most level, rolling her wrists and hands.

“He isn’t a former mage.” Leliana closed the last of her cabinets. One crow perched at her desk, free. It cocked his head.

“But the mark on his forehead.” Fiona was sure she saw it.

“Butler was no mage. Just one of my spies who betrayed us. I made him tranquil.”

“You...can make non-mages Tranquil?” Fiona’s body stiffened

“Yes. I received the information from an informant. Initially I thought the intelligence outlandish but my agents apprehended Butler. We were going to kill him.” Leliana looked over the railing at Butler. “I wanted to test if the rite of tranquility was only possible on mages. It isn’t. And dare I say, the effects of tranquility on a non-mage are...far more efficient if needlessly cruel.”

“Cruel?” Fiona gulped.

“Yes. The Qun does something similar with those who will not convert. But the results are far more disastrous than tranquility.” Leliana sighed with a frown. “At least Butler can feed and clean himself, even if he needs reminding daily.”

Fiona blinked to step back toward the door. “Why… are you telling me this?”

Leliana’s smile was meant to assure and disarm but it sent an unpleasant shiver down Fiona.

“Because I know you will do what is necessary.” Leliana straightened. “Even if it means abandoning your half-blooded royal bastard son to his Uncle.”

Pale and still, Fiona steeled herself. “How?”

“I wasn’t sure, until now.” Leliana frowned. Her gaze belied nothing however. She advanced.

Fiona said nothing, looking down. _How? How could she have known about her and Maric?_

“When I am Divine, I will be sure no mage has to abandon their child again. Be they human, elf, or qunari.”

 _When?_ Fiona snapped her attention up, question

“That aside, did you need something?” Leliana drew Fiona from her thoughts. Her eyes darkening under her hood.

“I… Ellandra.” Fiona fumbled for words.

“Ah yes. My apologies, There was some trouble in Sahrnia. A red lyrium tattooed warrior has been a nuisance, stopping all our efforts to capture Suledin Keep. Varric has been dispatched to the area along with a small contingent of our agents to aid the situation once they meet with Ellandra. I will send a full report on your mages who assisted once I receive it.” Leliana explained in a quick and succinct manner. “Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you Sister... I-I shall take my leave.” Fiona gave a tilt of her head and descended down the stairs. Her breath coming in short bursts. She met Butler at the bottom who gazed unendingly at her.  

“Oh! Hello Grand Enchanter.” A cheery voiced Dagna pulled Fiona from Butler’s stare. “Nice day isn’t? Brisk out there!”  The Arcanist had a basket of metallic collars.

A sense of dread washed over her at their mere presence as the fade was pushed out of reach, as though the veil thickened around her. She cast one glance at them and felt sick. The runes were reminiscent of ones she only saw on Templar shields to enhance magical resistance. They were blue, almost white with how much lyrium there was. It felt as if she was right next to a group of Templars performing an annulment. The searing heat of Templar magic soured what little food was in her stomach. She stumbled to the side.

“Did you just see Sister Leliana?” Dagna asked.

Fiona couldn’t open her mouth to answer. Instead she fled the rookery.

“Oh… okay…” Dagna watched the door slam shut behind Fiona. “Hey there Butler. Leliana is expecting me, if she’s here.” Butler gave a slow nod.

Outside, blood rushed to Fiona’s head as she sped through the walkways toward the library. When she was a considerable distance from the door, she stopped. Hearing nothing in the rush of mountain wind, she heaved breaths in and leant against the ramparts as an unsettling panic rose.

“Fiona.” Lysas called over the wind. Fiona snapped up. “There is another request from Commander Cullen.”

Closing her eyes, Fiona could not be bothered by the Commander any further. “I told you to put it with the others.”

“I don’t think that is going to be possible.” Lysas opened the door revealing the Commander just beyond it.

“Perhaps this discussion would be best had in your office?” Cullen gestured inside. Fiona spied Vivienne as well and bit her tongue. It would do nothing to shout at either of them with Lysas there. So she led them to her office but soon as the door was closed, she exploded.

“Unbelievable, you come into the mage’s library in full regalia all for what!” Fiona slammed her hands on her desk. She normally did her work in the library, making herself open for anyone to see or approach her. The Inquisitor had given her an office of her own. It was little more than a storage room at this point, but it did contain a desk and some chairs. She was crowded into it with the Commander and Enchanter Vivienne.

“Do lower your voice, Fiona.” Vivienne stated as she raised her hands, creating a three-tiered sound barrier. “We shan’t disturb the others.”

“You already have disturbed the others. The Commander of the Inquisition and a _Chantry Apologist_ mage crossing the library to find me. That is disturbing. Especially given the Commander’s former position as Knight Commander of Kirkwall’s Circle.” Fiona hissed.

“I do apologize for that.” Cullen stepped up, taking responsibility. “But it was necessary as you have ignored all my requests.”

“I haven’t ignored them. I simply refused to speak with you.”

“That cannot stand any longer. The situation requires immediate action.” Vivienne leveled Fiona with a frown.

“What situation?” Taken aback by the expression, Fiona considered they may be serious. Vivienne and Cullen both shared a look, one that worried Fiona. What could have both of them willing to seek her out?

“I would like to preamble, I do not think it is one of your mages, but circumstances as they are...I am aware of one of your mages perhaps being connected to the situation at hand.” Cullen was careful with his wording.

“What. Situation?” Fiona reiterated.

“There is a mage in our infirmary who may be a victim of blood magic.” Cullen stated.

“And you believe one of my mages is the culprit.”

“I do not believe one your mages to be the culprit but there may be one who can aid us in reversing what has been done to her.“ Cullen stilled.

“Her?”

“Fiona, I’ve examined the girl myself.” Vivienne for this moment dropped an iota of her professional veneer. Her voice thick before it cleared. It was a shift even Cullen noticed. But for Fiona it signaled how deeply troubled Vivienne was to have allowed that to show. Of all the Enchanters meetings they had, not once would Vivienne allow such a slip. “Her aura has been manipulated, making bleeding her easier and lasting longer. The surgeon informed me the Chargers brought her in and little has changed since then. But I can only guess this to be the work of a blood mage.”

“Aura manipulation?” Fiona chilled. She was intimately aware of that practice. The Grey Warden mages made full use of it’s capability on her. “That is blood magic.” She confirmed. She spent months under observation by the Warden mages who tried to discern how the taint was simply gone from her. Much of what they did in those months was blood magic, before Maric sent word inquiring as to where she was. She credited her freedom of being a subject of academic study at Weisshaupt to that letter.  

“How do you know?” Vivienne was curious.

“I...am not allowed to discuss it.” Fiona pressed her lips tight. Vivienne knew what that meant. Any topic in the circle that strayed too close to the Wardens, was always met with the same tight lipped response. “Just know, I had seen what it can do. How is the patient? What has been done to her?”

“From the surgeon’s notes, starvation, mutilation, and malnourishment. From my own examination, her magical humors are all but depleted. Her heart is severely damaged as well as her lungs.  Her very mana is all that has kept her alive thus far.”

“I wish to help but I will not allow your templars to toss the beds and few possessions of my mages.” Fiona did not want to startle her mages. They have just gotten to the point where they feel safe enough to hope for the future. So many of them had offered their thanks to her. The rebellion happened and now they had an open alliance with a powerful institution, one that did not demand indentured servitude.

“We’re not suggesting that.” Cullen corrected. “I just wish to speak with one mage, to start. If he even is with us still.”

“How do you know this mage can even help?”

Cullen was silent. He took a breath. His skin paled before he looked up. “During the Blight, Kinloch Hold was overrun with blood mages and abominations led by Uldred.” He began. “I...witnessed too many horrors that made me a danger to mages afterwards, so Knight Commander Greagoir put me on clerical duty.” Cullen explained. “I came across a file on a mage who had disappeared not long before those events.” Cullen sighed, seeming relieved to move past a topic of Kinloch Hold’s abomination infestation. “The report said a mage by the name of Jowan.”

“Jowan?” Fiona perked up.

“You know him?”

“No. Apologies. It’s just…” Fiona shared a glance with Vivienne. “The name Jowan was a colloquial term for ‘a dangerous plan with little or no chance of success.’ It was quite the rage post Blight. Now I understand why.” They had always wondered where it had originated from.

“Yes well, this Jowan…” Cullen paused before shaking his head. “This Jowan appeared to have snuck into the reliquary, destroyed his phylactery, and was intent on escaping.  Except First Enchanter Irving knew about it. At the last moment Jowan used blood magic to escape. Now I can only recall so much but I was able to corroborate the events with the only other name I could remember on the file as being connected.”

“How do you know they were connected?”

“Well, they aided Jowan in his escape and for it, they were made Tranquil. They are currently here...under Minaeve’s care.” Cullen explained.

“Ah…” It made sense, and Fiona did not wish to dwell on the unjust nature of tranquility being used in such a manner. It was unsettling. “I wish I could help you Commander but no mage under my care is named Jowan. None that I can recall but I can have Lysas go through.”

“He wouldn’t be going by the name of Jowan. Last I saw him...he went by another name. Levyn.”

That stilled Fiona. Her blood ran cold and for a moment she almost sent Cullen out but she took a steadying breath.

“You know the name.”

“I do. But I do not see how he could be a blood mage. He has been nothing but helpful.” Fiona would not believe any lies of slander on Enchanter Levyn. He was a blessing. Taking control of all matters of teaching. No. It couldn’t be him. The name Levyn was common enough.

“He may not very well be a blood mage. I could be wrong. He could be someone else, but if there is a chance…” Cullen implored.

“The girl won’t last long. She’s developed a fever that I believe could be the start of a wasting illness.” Vivienne urged Fiona.

“If...it is proven he is a blood mage. Can you ensure me he will not be made Tranquil.” Fiona stared at them. Cullen let that weigh a moment before he nodded. “What do you need.”

“First, we must inform Sister Leliana…”

Fiona felt her stomach sink and unease stood the hairs on the back of her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LonelyAgain was kind enough to let peek at her observations about Skyhold and the placement of sentry towers around, so I credit her for that. But I added a bit of my own flavor to some of it, especially with regard to how Skyhold looks in the Fade, or rather how Skyhold could have looked before the Veil. Floating castles ala the Hallelujah mountains from James Cameron's Avatar. Also there is no way that rookery would be on top of the library.
> 
> Credit to Spellweaver for work on continuity and consistency.


	14. Educate

“Ow!”

“Pay attention, Henlin.” Levyn scolded the young mage. The scroll of parchment he’d enchanted to smack his student unfurled. “Stop gazing at Researcher Minaeve like some trinket for you to win.” He forced the mage to look forward, placing a temporary corporeal barrier between his table at the railing. It blocked his sight of Helisma and Minaeve’s discussion across the library.

Henlin’s ears drooped as his classmates giggled at him. He shrunk in his seat. “Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Levyn nodded. “Now turn to page three hundred and ninety-four of Ferelden Folklore and History,” Levyn stepped up to the head of the cluster of seats and chairs. There was a silencing barrier around them to prevent disturbing the other library purveyors.

“The Dales? Ser?” Bryce questioned from the front table. He was his apprentice, assigned by Fiona. He wasn’t one Levyn would have picked.

“Yes. As you’ll note in the back of the class we have a few new students.” Levyn called attention to the five elven children and ten human children, all non-mages. “We will be learning about the Dales today. More specifically about the Dalish and their culture.” He stated. “And we have a guest-”

“Whats there to learn? It’s just a bunch of knife-ears.” Scoffed one of the non-mage human children. He wore much better clothing than the other children. Clearly a noble’s son.  “And you’re all just mages. It’s not like you’ll ever see any of them.”

Many of the elves in the group stiffened at the slur. Their ears perked up.

“What is your name, child?” Levyn leant against his staff, staring.

“Albert the Second.”

“The second of what?” Levyn squinted with a smirk. The other students snickered. “Your family name?”

“Howe.” The child grit his teeth.

“Ah… a Howe. Good.” Levyn shifted. “As your father has likely decided that it is better for you to gain an education with the Inquisition, rather than send you off to the scullery to work, you will adhere to all seminar etiquette. You will raise your hand to speak and wait your turn until I call you. You will _not_ speak out of turn. And you will not use such horrible language. Now apologize.”

The elves were quiet. The elven mages especially so.

Albert said nothing, his scowl deepening the longer Levyn waited.

“No.”

“Then leave.” Levyn stated.

“What-”

“Apologize. Or leave.”

Albert growled. “My father-”

“Your father is a shopkeeper and your grandfather was a treasonous lord who aided in the death of King Cailan.” Levyn barked. “Now leave my seminar.”  The child was barely ten years old and already he was a brat. Levyn hoped his mother would straighten him out. He’d heard the positive stories about Delilah Howe from a friend. Sighing, he watched the student leave with a stomp.

“Now, if our new students would please come forward. You’ll have to share books.” Levyn had them come forward, chairs moved and tables turned to accommodate. He did note that elves sat with elves and humans with humans. Today was not the class to fix that, so he ignored it for now.

“Now, who would like to read on the Dales?” Bryce and Lyorah were the only ones to raise their hands. They were his best students and _human._ “Henlin, how about you read the first section and then Lyorah, if you will continue.” He called.

Henlin’s cheeks and ears reddened but he scooted closer to the book. “Man...many…” He cleared his throat and began again.  “Many forget that when Holy Andraste called out to the oppressed peoples to rise up, it was the elves who answered her first. The humblest slaves of the Imperium became her vanguard, and when victory came, they were rewarded accordingly.”

“Yes good. Lyorah?”

“They were given a land in what is now the south of Orlais, called the Dales. A great exodus of elves undertook the journey to their new home, crossing ocean, desert, and mountain. Their city, the first elven city since the fabled Arlathan, was called Halamshiral. A new era had begun for the elves. But the old era–"

“Stop.” Levyn halted her. “Now who can tell me what was wrong with that paragraph.” He stared at his students, catching their reactions. Some were confused, others worried. A few of them were pouring over the book to find the answer, muttering the paragraph over again. But no one could answer.

“Did I read it wrong ser?”

“No, you did well.” Levyn stated. “What was wrong with the paragraph was the sentence: Their city, the first elven city _since the fabled Arlathan._ ” Again he stared at his confused students, however some of the elven ones picked up on it. Henlin especially sat upright. He sent him a smile. “Arlathan was not a fable.”

“What? But it says here in the book-”

“Bryce, I know Sister Petrine is a highly respected scholar of the Chantry, however she wrote that before evidence to the contrary was shown to her.” He explained. “Not that many of the Chantry ever thought to look for evidence.” He muttered under his breath. “There have been dozens of Tevinter scholars and Rivaini mages who have come across the ruins of Arlathan in the north. Ruins. If there are ruins, then it stands to reason that it isn’t just a tale but an actuality. So please grab your quill and cross out the words _the fabled_ .” He instructed. “Go on.” He encouraged. The humans reluctantly did so but the elves did with gusto.  “Now...there is much of history we do not know. And what we do know is written with particular biases. Specifically a Chantry one.” He added. “You must be open to the fact that the Chantry can be _wrong_ and is subject to censure and edits. That is why we have such things as the Dissonant Verses.”

“The Dissonant Verses?” Henlin asked.

“Verses of the Chant of Light that have been banned. One in particular is the Canticle of Shartan, but I shan’t teach that to you else some Chantry Sister will beseech the Maker. The Maker will likely have smote me before I finished that lesson.” Levyn smiled as he caught the glare of passing Sister. His elven students giggled, but the human ones turned to stare at the Chantry Sister. “Now then, back to the passage.”  They read through the passage on how the elves isolated themselves in the Dales, the rumors of them returning to worship their gods. Scandalous rumors involving sacrifices soon followed.

“And then came an attack by the elves on the defenseless village of Red Crossing.” Bryce read outloud from the text. “The Chantry replied with the Exalted March of the Dales, and the era of the elven kingdom came to an end.  Halamshiral was utterly destroyed, the elves driven out, scattered, left to survive on goodwill alone.”

The group was silent now.

“Red Crossing… the catalyst that resulted in the Exalted March of the Dales.” Levyn scratched at his beard. “Who can tell me what they know about Red Crossing.”

“I heard the elf came in the dead of night to steal a girl.” Bryce scoffed.

“Bryce, raise your hand please.” Levyn scoded. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“In the song. The Girl in Red Crossing.”

“Will you sing it for us?” Levyn asked him.

“Uh…” Bryce stammered.

“No? Pity. Guess you will have to settle for my chicken croons.” Levyn smirked and began singing much to the children’s chagrin. They groaned and covered their ears, setting their books over their head all the while laughing and giggling. “Oh come now, I don’t sound so bad….” He summoned an orb and sang into it, much to the awe and slight fear of the non-mage students. The mage ones however chuckled and giggled as it then mirrored his voice back at him. “Egad! I really do sound terrible.” He dispelled the orb and waved at the students to settle down.

“Alright, back to Red Crossing. Now, that song was meant to make the real tale a bit more fanciful and less harrowing. We have a guest who can shed a bit more light to what truly happened at Red Crossing. Keeper Hawen.” Levyn gestured to an elf, just within the sound barrier, standing next to another that Levyn knew by the name of Loranil.

“Keeper, thank you for coming here to speak.”

“Ma serannas.” Hawen nodded his head. “Thank you for inviting me. It is not often we are invited to speak of the Dalish’s own side to historical events. It is an honor to be here.” The Keeper stepped toward the head beside Levyn.

“Red Crossing was not an event of intent, but a misunderstanding.” Hawen began.

The seminar ended with many of the elven children and a few of the human ones crowding around Hawen. Questions abound about what Dalish life was like. If they really use halla to pull Aravels, and what the vallaslin meant.

“Children, give the Keeper a moment.”

“It’s alright, Enchanter.” Hawen smiled and sat with them to answer their questions.

The sound barrier had been lowered and the noise of the library now filtered in, which wasn’t much.

“Enchanter?” An Orlesian-Jader dialect voice pulled him from his books.

“Mother Giselle, how can I help you?” Levyn looked at the doddering old woman. He held little respect for the Chantry for many reasons. But that was neither here nor there.

“I understand you have volunteered to educate our younger Inquisition population.” Mother Giselle peered at him.

“That I have.”

“Is it wise then to pull the Keeper from his duties for this when the texts could suffice?”

“Well, I believe the texts do not suffice, considering they were written by the Chantry.” Levyn did not mince words.

“Yes by one of our foremost scholars. Sister Petrine studied the Dalish extensively. Enough to write volumes of text on them.” Giselle slipped her hands between her sleeves.

“A cursory text yes, but we cannot dream to understand an entirely different culture on text alone.” Levyn squinted. “Besides much of her text is outdated.” Levyn gestured. “More about the past is learned with each day. How can we ever supplement that gap in knowledge if not through first hand experience?”

“I see.” Mother Giselle narrowed her gaze. “Perhaps then, you should separate the two.”

“Pardon?”

“Introduce the culture in one seminar and then at another time you can have their talk with your guest.” Mother Giselle tried. “Allowing them to truly absorb the material over time and-”

“Well actually there is evidence to suggest they will retain the information best in the order they receive it-" He stopped at Mother Giselle’s patient face. How she silenced herself so he could talk despite Levyn having interrupted. Levyn pressed his lips tight. What had his friend called it? It’d been almost a year since she’d explained it to him, _Mansplaining, Jowan. You are so guilty of that all the time._ "Nevermind, please ignore what I said. Carry on.”

Mother Giselle paused, perturbed by his switch. “As I was saying, you can give your students time to parse through available resources and be better prepared for your guest.”

“I see.” Levyn looked at the students peppering Hawen with questions. “Yes that may have been better. Thank you, Mother Giselle.”

“Keeper Hawen! So good to see you!” Came the the boisterous Inquisitor.

The children hushed in awe at the Inquisitor in their presence.

“Ah, Inquisitor.”

“Please, call me Ellana.” She smiled bright at the children. “I see you are teaching Dalish history?”

“Yes, Enchanter Levyn invited me through Loranil. Quite an unusual request.” Hawen smiled. “Ma serannas, again Enchanter.”

“Oh nonsense, thank you. Truly. It was short noticed and I know you have your duties and the protection of your clan to consider.”

“Yes, but the Inquisition’s forces do well to protect our Clan, all thanks to the Inquisitor.” Hawen beamed at Lavellan. “If you’ll excuse me though, I think some of the children still have questions.”

“Of course.” Lavellan walked across to stand beside Levyn.

Levyn’s gaze was drawn toward her left hand, where he knew the anchor was situated.

“This was a wonderful idea! Had I known, I could have come and given insight about my own clan.” She clapped Levyn on the shoulder with her right hand. Whether it was a conscious effort, Levyn didn’t know.

“Ah, but you’re always so busy.”

“Never too busy to teach about my people. Especially to the young ones.” She watched Hawen for a moment. “I didn’t think a shem would ever come up with this idea.”

“Well to be honest, a year ago...I wouldn’t have come up with it either.” Levyn admitted.

“It’s because I’m Dalish and the Inquisitor, isn’t it?” Ellana asked with a sly smile.

“Well, there is that, Inquisitor. But a friend of mine. She died in Haven… she opened my eyes about quite a number of injustices. Not just to the elves, but the dwarves, and the qunari. My own troubles as a mage paled in comparison. It adds a bit of perspective. So thank you, for giving mages a chance, when the Chantry wouldn’t have done the same to the Dalish.”  

“Your friend… I’m sorry to hear she passed.” Ellana frowned. “I could have done so much-”

“No. Don’t blame yourself. She’s the one who convinced me to join the rebel mages, to not add to the chaos. But when the Inquisition showed up...she joined. She believed in it, wholly.  I didn’t want her to join at first.” Levyn frowned. “But she was adamant that the Inquisition would stop the chaos and save Thedas. I just needed to have faith.”

“Your friends sounds like she inspired you.”

“She did.” Levyn sighed.

After that, the Inquisitor excused herself. She wished to speak with Keeper Hawen. Something about accompanying him on while heading to Emprise du Lion. Levyn wasn’t privy to it. Instead he set about righting the chairs and tables and collecting the books.

His back cracked as he hefted them, grumbling. He was almost thirty-five and already aches and pains were showing up. _Lift with your legs, not your back, Jowan. You really need to improve your core._ “Yes yes.” He mumbled to himself, shaking Cosette’s advice away.

He set the books down on the return table next to Banon who shrewdly looked up from his cataloguing, ready with an admonishment right until he saw who it was. “Ah, Levyn. Thank you for returning the books.”

“Do keep them to the side. Tomorrow’s lesson will use the same books.” Levyn sighed.

“Just teaching history then?” Banon eyed the Ferelden Folklore tomes.

“For now yes. I extended the lessons to all children of Skyhold so I’m only covering the basics for now.” Levyn shrugged.

“Including elven history?” Banon looked pointedly at the cluster of elven mages who were now pouring over all books they could find about the Dalish.

“It would do well to learn about the Dalish. And for the human children to learn of the elves. Don’t you think?”

“It might very well get them killed.” Banon muttered. “I don’t trust the Dalish, everything I’ve heard about them...sending out mages just because they had too many.”

“From what I understand, that is only in rare cases. And every clan is different. You cannot lump them all together.” Levyn frowned.

“Hmph. Tell that to Minaeve.” Banon turned back to his cataloguing.

Levyn sighed. It was quite tiring advocating for this. Ever since he’d been granted permission to supplement the courses with a curriculum meant to improve human and elf relations, he’s met kick back on all sides. Humans, elves. Mages and nonmages. Dalish and non-dalish. It was difficult to keep up but...it felt worth it. Improving understanding between them all would surely improve their lives. It had to. They hadn’t tried it before, what was there to lose if they tried?

Ten years ago...he wouldn’t have dreamed of being an Instructor. But ten years ago he’d been terrified he’d be made tranquil. Which led to some rather ill-conceived plan to escape, he lost the love of his life, and was on the run. Was hired to masquerade as a tutor for an Arl’s son in order to poison the Arl. Thankfully, Amell spared him. He’d never known Amell, but only knew him in passing in the circle. Not enough to be his friend.

The children had free time now, so he took this moment to head toward the sole comfiest seat in the library. It was by the stairs on the second floor, tucked away into an alcove. There was always a stack of books around it. Most days it was empty, but on some days there was an occupant.

Levyn stopped short to see the Tevinter in his seat. He was one of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. “I see you’re in your spot.”

“As I am most days.” Dorian peered over his book at the man.

“Except of course…” Levyn trailed off.

“When I’m off traveling the countryside…” Dorian sighed.

“Slaughtering people at the Inquisitor’s side.” Levyn finished. “Decidedly more entertaining.”

“More entertaining than teaching the young magical minds of the future? Perish the thought.” Dorian smirked, shutting his book. “Have you come to pick at my own mind again, Levyn?”

“A bit if you don’t _mind._ ” Levyn smiled. He’d rather enjoyed this, even if initially he had approached Dorian under the directions of Cosette.

“Nonsense. I do enjoy these chats. So many curious ideas you have. Gravity affecting time, Marvelous.”

_“Dorian Pavus. If you meet him in Redcliffe, he’s the one you’ll want to talk to about portals and time rifts. You’ll want to stroke his ego. Oh I should warn you, he’s an insatiable flirt.” Cosette whispered to him the night before he left her with the Inquisition’s caravan. He wanted her to come with him, to Redcliffe to join the rebel mages. She would do better there but she insisted the Inquisition was where she wanted to go._

_“What would we even discuss? I barely have half a formula.” Levyn grumbled as she curled up against his chest. They had only gotten to share a tent by her playing off as his lover._

_Not that he minded having a pretty woman in his arm, but he didn’t see her like that. His heart would always belong to Lily.  Cosette was more of a responsibility. His burden to send back home. It was his fault she’d been ripped from her world._

_“Believe me that’s all you’ll need. He’s the brightest mind of Tevinter. He’s practically invented time travel with his mentor. If anyone is going to figure it out, it’s him.” Cosette muttered with a yawn. “Remember...to mention the stuff about relativity to him, and the models of time travel, paradoxes and...”_

_“Sleep, I’ve got it all written down.”_

_“Sorry, just… so excited. I thought the Inquisition wouldn’t form until the Breach.” She sighed._

_“Well, that shows that even you don’t know everything.” He teased._

_“Duh. If I knew everything, that’d be-” She interrupted herself with a yawn. “That’d be pretty boring.”_

At the end of the day, like many mages, Levyn returned to his quarters. They weren’t just his, he shared them with about six other mages. The cots had been stacked to create bunks, allowing for a table and chairs in the room to allow them to have their meals there, have guests, or even play card games. He was not the first one in.

“Care for a pint and game?” Basro asked. Basro wasn’t a mage. He was however a dwarf studying under the Arcanist, Dagna. Basro found it more conducive to his studies to be around mages, if only because they had the best ale.

“Is it honeyed?” Levyn smirked. He slid the book he would be reading for the night unto his pillow, stopping upon seeing a slip of parchment on his bed.

“Aye it’s honeyed and spiced. Got a favor from requisitions.” Basro poured a mug out.

“Did anyone come in here?” Levyn asked as he pulled the parchment open to reveal only three words. _They know. Run._

“No. Not since I got here, why?” Basro asked, sipping at his mug. “Levyn?”

“Uh...I uh.” Levyn eyed the words. “I just remembered, I promised Banon, I’d meet him at the Herald’s Rest for a pint.” Levyn lied as he stuffed his meager possessions into his side bag. He didn’t have much. He didn’t need much either. He knew how to hunt, how to stay warm, and how to hide.

“Ah, pity.” Basro mumbled. “Well, no use drinking alone, Mind if I join?”

“Yes I mind. It’s a private matter.” Levyn muttered. “Don’t wait up for me.” He stepped out of the room, the slip of parchment heavy in his palm as he ducked down the corridor and around a corner. Not a few seconds later the sound of metallic booted feet of Templars rang down from the other end.

He’d barely had a head start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cosette was in Thedas long enough to develop a very close friendship with Jowan. Close enough they felt comfortable sleeping in eachother's arms. But not sexually. Jowan will always love Lily.
> 
> Anyway, I've got this idea of a series of oneshots of Jowan and Cosette's adventures. It's not important to this story so I didn't really develop it. You can get a sense for how close they are in this chapter. So I likely won't write their adventures because it would just be all fluff. No conflict or overarching plot.


	15. Grace

As a conductor of the interconnecting and shifting allegiances of bards for Duke Bastien, Madame de Fer was a renowned reader of the agents’ motives, wants, desires. But most importantly she could see past that to what she needed and wanted, utilizing them to further her and, by extension, Duke Bastien’s goals. Thus she could spot when their allegiance wavered and would maneuver players and pawns to acquire an equal exchange. Vivienne was counted as an elite player of the Grand Game.

With all that under consideration, the reading on Sister Leliana was suspicious.

Cullen had arranged a meeting in the War Room with Vivienne in attendance to report the status of the woman. Fiona had elected to not be present. The Inquisitor lingered by the windows, listening. The Inquisitor had seen all manner of horrors in the alternate future, so her lack of response to her report was reasonable. But it was Sister Leliana’s stony face as she received Cullen’s report on the potential blood mage that was disconcerting. The Spymaster was younger than Vivienne. Yet news of the woman’s state was no surprise to Leliana. What was shocking to her, was the presence of a blood mage.

Vivienne should be assured but even she would have reacted more than the simple nods Leliana gave.

“You already know of her.” It wasn’t a question, but made Cullen stop his explanation and realize the truth of her statement. Leliana’s small smile confirmed but still she said nothing as she looked at Cullen to continue.

“Is this true?” Josephine questioned from her spot at the War Table. Her writing board set down and face horrified at the revelation. “Leliana… what did you do?”

“What was necessary.”

Josephine’s gasp filled the room.  Vivienne wished to mirror it. There were other ways of swaying a spy to your side. Less horrific and physically damaging ways. Intentional starvation was one. All bards trained that one day they would suffer it. The rare few could withstand it long enough for rescue or escape.  But this woman had never attempted an escape and rescue was a dream. She was a captive. Her wounds indicated methods normally utilized against traitors were used on her.

Vivienne had often been called by Empress Celene to magically attend to some of Celene’s enemies. Yet that was for the throne. Players of the Game had limits to the lengths they would go. They at least killed those who wouldn’t betray their masters. They had a sense of decency and mercy.

“Necessary?” Vivienne did not seethe, did not raise her voice, and did not spit vitriol. Despite all evidence to the contrary of wishing to do just that. “The egregious nature of her wounds and condition is not _necessary_.”

“You’re right.” Inquisitor Lavellan turned from her spot. Her shoulders squared and expression controlled into an indifferent slate. Lavellan had come into her position, meeting each challenge head on and never once faltering, or doubting herself. A remarkable woman that was vastly different than the unsure woman she had met in her salon all those months ago. “That is why we have been allowing our surgeon to tend to her.”

“Clearly that isn’t enough. There has been no improvement, and in fact she has worsen yet. With a fever and early signs of the wasting illness, I fear she only has a few weeks.” Vivienne crossed her arms.

“We are aware.”

“And you’ve done nothing?” Vivienne watched closely.

“You understand, Vivienne. Spies are inevitable.” Leliana strolled around the table. “They come when you’ve shown yourself to be a potential threat or ally.   _Not_ before.” Leliana stopped in front of Vivienne. “We _thought_ her a spy. And like any spies we encounter, we interrogated. But we quickly learned Cosette was _not_ a spy.”

“Cosette?” Cullen frowned. He recognized the name. “That...is Cosette?” Cullen questioned Leliana.

“The very same woman from the Hinterlands, Commander.”

“If that is Cosette…You said she _wasn’t_ a spy.” Cullen breathed low. “There is evidence of torture and prolonged starvation dating _months_ back.” Cullen bristled. He was not wholly comfortable with this. She wasn’t a spy, there was no reason to treat one in this manner unless...Cullen frowned. Unless she had betrayed the Inquisition. “Why was she treated like one?”

“Because she knew Corypheus would attack at the Temple and later Haven.” Lavellan stated.

“What?” Cullen started, paling.

“She knew Justinia would die.” Leliana looked down.

Vivienne’s heart sank.

“Knew the Breach would bring chaos all across Thedas, killing thousands of innocents.”

“Knew Gereon Alexius tampered with time magic.”

“Knew the Lord Seeker was being masqueraded by an envy demon and corrupting the Templars with red lyrium.”

Anger burned in Cullen’s eyes as acceptance settled onto him. Vivienne would get no support from him now. Templars often tested mages whom were suspected of being blood mages or abominations with starvation, mutilation, torture, and threats of death. Demons were adept at emulating their victims, but pain brought them out. Templars needed little more than an accusation to act. Cosette’s treatment was justified in his eyes, especially as she knew of the corruption of his fellow brothers in the Order now suffering.

“Knew Lavellan would be declared Herald of Andraste and eventually Inquisitor.”

“She knew my clan would die if I sent _your_ soldiers.” Lavellan’s voice cracked toward the end. “She knew all of this _before_ they happened and never thought to share what she knew. She’d been under our noses from the start.”

“Have you considered she might be a seer?” Vivienne pressed her hands against the table, leaning toward them. Though even with the suggestion, it was wrong. Vivienne had sensed her magical levels. There was little potential, and what mana she had went right to her healing.

“We ruled that out. Her magic is far too underdeveloped. There were no classical markers of magical expression either.” Lavellan continued. “Circumstances what they were, we took her as an informant.”

“Informant?” Josie’s voice rose. “I should have been informed then. Informants should be treated with care and delicate handling.” Josephine’s brows furrowed with deep indignation.  “Why did you ask me to be the Inquisition’s ambassador?” Josephine fumed. “I am meant to represent us, Leliana, Inquisitor. You didn’t even let me try.”

“We were in the midst of war, Josie.” Leliana snapped. “There was no time for diplomatic measures.”

“No, of course not.” Vivienne’s gaze was icy. “Instead you brutalized her into submission. You were no better than a Templar without a leash.”

Cullen flinched but he sent Vivienne a sideways glare. “I suppose you could have done better. Used your magic to terrorize her mind. Tempt her like a demon would?”

“Do not mistake me for a maleficar, Cullen.” Vivienne snapped. “I have decency and restraint.”

“She withheld information.” Lavellan’s nostrils flared. “There was no time! The breach’s temporary seal could have broke at any moment. More people could have died. Sacrifices had to be made.” Lavellan banged her fist on the table.

“If there had been any other way…” Leliana sighed and shook her head. “She didn’t give much at first. It was like pulling teeth.”

“More like fingernails.” Vivienne glared. Josephine’s brow furrowed further at the imagery, her fingers tucked into her palm.

“Yes.” Leliana admitted with a grit of her teeth. “But with applied incentive, the information became outlandish.”

“Impossible.” Lavellan stated. “Even more so than a hole in the sky. But then…”

“What?”

“As I said, spies are inevitable.” Leliana reminded.

 _Iron Bull._ Vivienne closed her eyes. She was firmly aware of the danger he presented. Had even questioned why the Inquisitor had allowed him free roam.  A Ben-Hassrath’s interrogation techniques would have been no match for Cosette. She needed no further explanation. The Qun was not known for their gentle treatment of mages. She could only imagine what was the precedent in this situation for the Qun.

“Fine.” Vivienne breathed. Fiona will be informed. The mages under her care needed to be informed who they aligned themselves with. “There is no use in arguing this further. It has been done.”

“I agree. We should focus on...Cosette’s recovery.” Josephine’s complexion was pallid but she pushed through it. She’d been a bard, she understood the necessity of some actions, even if she didn’t agree with them. As Vivienne understood it, Josephine was not cut out for a bard’s life. “Reparations should be made, especially given her contributions. And recognition for all she has done and suffered. Under the Inquisition’s current state we have the resources to spare.”

Lavellan cleared her throat. “I believe we can continue this conversation without you, Vivienne.” The room became silent. Lavellan and Vivienne stared each other down.

Vivienne stood tall, staring down at Lavellan. There was building magic in Vivienne’s glare. Lips pursed as she considered her words. “And the matter of Cosette’s health?”

“The surgeon is doing her best. But if you wish for anything further, you can speak with Josephine about resource allocations at a later time. For now, my advisers and I have other pressing issues to discuss.”

There were many words Vivienne could have hurled out. But she didn’t. Josephine sent her an apologetic look but Madame de Fer didn’t need that.

“Without you.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. As you say.” She soothed out and stepped out of the war room with an elegant flair. Yet as soon as the doors shut behind her, she let her veneer of pleasantries slip off. She was a woman on a mission now.

 

* * *

 

Warmth. She felt warm. It should have alarmed her. Should have made her cry but she smiled. Warmth was the last feeling you got before death of hypothermia. She was succumbing. _Finally._ The rescue, the food, the healers. _Cole._  That had all been in her head. She was finally dying. Exposure, lack of heat. There was only so much the body could take. She was finally dying. She welcomed it.

As she waited for consciousness to bleed away and her to become nothing, the warmth persisted.

Cosette frowned. Shouldn’t the warm fade and become cold again before everything disappeared? That’s how she imagined it would be. That’s how it’d always been in the books. But… it wasn’t happening. Why?

That’s when the warmth was accompanied by wet. Specifically on her body. Her eyes shot open and she was being lowered into a tub by a woman with a large sunburst brand on her forehead and wearing blue and gold circle robes.

“What…” She croaked. Cosette couldn’t move without jostling them.

“Enchanter, she is awake.” Came the dead toned voice of the Tranquil. Her eyes large, ears pointed, and hair blonde and braided up into a bun. For a moment, Cosette wondered if Lavellan had been made Tranquil. A wish she made in silent secrecy during her imprisonment.

“Thank you, Surana.” The smooth voice of Vivienne came from behind the privacy curtain that the tub was sectioned off in.

Surana set her into the warm soapy water. Her gaze drawn toward her naked body. The sight of it, made her turn away. It was unrecognizable. Clean and pruned.

“How many baths have I had?”

“This is your fourth dear. You were filthy, though your wounds were well cared for at the least. The rest of you was horrid.” Vivienne stated. She’d stepped around the privacy screen. “Proper healing cannot begin until you are cleaned thoroughly. Surana, my shears?” Vivienne asked.

Cosette’s heart pounded against her chest, breath hitching.

> “Who do you work for?” Leliana circled around her. She’d been tied to the ceiling, her arms stretched high above and water thrown over her. The tips of her toes was the only thing from keeping her full body weight on her wrists.
> 
> “No one.” She answered. “I don’t...work for anyone.”
> 
> “Not even this…” Leliana stepped around her. “Elder One, you claim is responsible for the Breach?”
> 
> “I didn’t say…” Cosette sighed, body shifting to put less weight on her toes. She almost left it, she couldn’t take it anymore. “I didn’t say he was responsible, just….a pawn.”
> 
> “A pawn for who?”
> 
> “Can you please take me down.” Cosette gave in, feeling the weight on her wrists, the grind of her shoulder blades against each other as the awkward angle she was in rubbed them together. “It hurts…”
> 
> “Not until you tell me more.”
> 
> “I...can’t.”
> 
> “What do you mean you can’t?”
> 
> “I don't have a death wish.” Cosette snapped, grunting as Leliana turned the chains so she was flailing trying to get a grip on the floor again to steady herself. Huffing, she puffed her hair out of her face and glowered.
> 
> Leliana left the cell, the door shutting behind her.
> 
> “Hey. Wait. You can't leave me hanging!” Cosette struggled to remain upright, toes aching, calf muscles cramping, wrist straining against the rope. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours when Leliana returned. Either way, Cosette was relieved right until she saw the shears.
> 
> Leliana didn't give her the chance to ask what they were for. She was brought down from the chain and instantly, Leliana took the shears to her hair.
> 
> “Wait no no!”
> 
> “Then tell me.” Leliana gripped the roots of her tangled and coiled hair. Without proper care and being drenched in water, it had quickly gotten out of hand. But it had taken her entire life to grow her hair as long as it was.
> 
> Was it worth more than angering an Evanuris's plan, thus signing her death warrant?  No. No it wasn't. Cosette wanted to live to see herself return home. She bit her tongue, telling herself it was just hair.
> 
> Tears bubbled as Leliana took the shears to her scalp, cutting out knotted chunks of hair and dropping. She yanked at times. Cosette flinched and Leliana caught skin. Nicking flesh and cutting deep until blood dripped through her lashes.

She came back as Vivienne sat on the single stool beside the tub. Her face somber and pitying. Her fingers slid over Cosette's scalp with a mixture of some sort. It filled the room in a spicy yet lavender like scent that relaxed the skin and moisturized her scalp.

Cosette looked up at Vivienne’s own head. The close cut of her hair showing years of a practiced hand.

“Why don’t you grow your hair out?” Cosette asked. She’d always been curious. She’d blamed it on the game creators not taking the time to animate her hair and so opted for the bald look, but here she was - in the flesh. And still her hair was closely cut.

Vivienne gave her an amused look.

“You would look even more marvelous with curls or box braids or your hair grown out all natural.” Cosette sighed.

Vivienne didn’t answer. Her attention focused on her scalp where the clumps of wet hair was gently pulled and cut.  Her fingers careful and movements considerate to the healing scabs. A blade was brought over it, giving her head a close shave.

“There. Now, best close your eyes, dear.” Vivienne warned.

Cosette didn’t want to. Vivienne would be another dream. Disappearing if she closed her eyes.

Vivienne set her hand against her eyelids. Tears already burning behind her lids as a bucket of warm water washed away anything on her head. Her eyes snapped back open before they could wipe her face dry. She filled with relief that Vivienne was still there.

She kept a close look on Vivienne as they bathed her. The water was warmer than anything she had prepared in the dungeon. It was sweet and spicey. It made all the cuts, bruises, and scabs ache but it felt good. Like...healing. The room smelled like her mother’s room had, whenever her dads took her to visit.

Spices and herbs filled her mom’s home. In her cooking, shampoos, conditioners, soaps, everything. Even in whatever she used to soothe sunburns, scrapes, toothaches. DIY had been her middle name.

She was safe. Safe and good.

Cosette’s shoulders slumped and she looked away. At least, she knew it wasn’t a dream. Even though it felt good and safe now… would Vivienne be like Bull? Would she turn cruel and mean like he had? Only nice at first and mean when she wanted something?

Her bottom lip trembled as they wrapped her head up and Surana lifted her up. They dried her with a linen towel. They left her hands unwrapped, allowing her fingernails to breathe.  A light layer of poultice over the scars that hadn't scabbed over or partially healed. Then they dressed her in a long cotton gown. She was set down into warm bedding on a cot.  The brazier bathed the room in warm firelight. The only bit of cold came from the window, meant to freshen the air.

Surana fed Cosette a stew. She swallowed three spoonfuls before she couldn’t anymore. Already feeling groggy and tired, she stared at Vivienne who had oversaw the entire process. She was at a table with an assortment of cauldrons, flasks, glass tubes, and beakers. Alchemy was the closest thing she could guess was happening there, though it looked like chemistry to her.

“There, don’t you feel much better?” Vivienne asked once she was settled into the bed.

“Yes.” Cosette’s voice warbled as tears openly dripped. “Th-thank you…”

Vivienne’s expression turned tender. Some wistful feeling passed over her, an old foolish desire for a mage to have. That maybe, if she had taken a different route. No. Vivienne stopped that thought and pulled back from Cosette.

“Yes, well. I am Enchanter Vivienne.”

“I know.” Cosette sighed. She didn’t have it in her to lie so out spilled everything she knew, everything she could recall. Better to get it over with. “Former First Enchanter of Montsimmard. Enchanter to the Imperial Court. Mistress to Duke Bastien de Ghislain.” Cosette stated. “And the de facto leader of the Loyalist mages. Or...you had been.”

“Hmm.” Vivienne regarded her, waiting for something more.

Cosette blinked. Anxious, she shifted. This was unusual. Only with Dorian had her revelation of knowing his titles hadn’t resulted in pain or more questions. But Vivienne was neutral.

“The um...t-the heart.” Cosette stuttered.

“The heart?” Vivienne's brow quirked up.

“It won’t work.”

“What heart won’t work, dear? You'll have to be more specific.” Vivienne pressed.

“Your research. The heart of the snowy wyvern won’t work.” Cosette ducked her head down, afraid now as Vivienne stilled. “Y-you probably haven’t asked the Inquisitor to fetch it for you. But it won’t work for your alchemical potion or whatever. Duke Bastien is going to die.”

Visually there was no indication of any of what she said affected Vivienne in either a positive or negative way.  But the enchanter turned to the still present tranquil.

“Surana.” Vivienne walked the distance to her desk. Her heels didn’t so much as clack on the stone.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Fetch me Ser Morris.” Vivienne requested.

“Yes. Madame.” Surana left the room from the sole door.

“Fascinating. The snowy wyvern. I hadn’t even considered the heart of a wyvern, much less that of a snowy one.” Vivienne flipped a few parchments over and an old tome floated from the bookshelf, opening. Vivienne turned to it, flipping a few pages. A small smile teased at her lips then before she schooled herself.

“It...it won’t work.” Cosette stared as Vivienne worked at her alchemy station.

“That is a nice opinion, darling.”

“But...I’m telling the truth. He’s going to die!”

“All of us are subjected to death inevitably.” Vivienne assured. “However, with use of a snowy wyvern heart, I can sustain his life that much more allowing me to find an alternate method.” Vivienne’s fingers ignited a purple flame at the cauldron. Water put to boil, bottles of ingredients, oils, and herbs added and the lid covering it as she set it to simmer.

“Wait...you believe me?”

Vivienne set another cauldron to boil before turning to face Cosette. “Of course I do.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been informed of your unusual foreknowledge.”

“Oh.” Cosette lowered her chin. So Vivienne knew and was using it. Like the others had. Was this why she lived? So the inner circle could now pull what information they wanted from her?

“Cosette.” Vivienne called her by name. “Look at me.”

Cosette frowned. They never used her name. They called her bas, thing, child, girl but never her name. Except once.

> Leliana loomed over her. Her eyes tracked over her exposed form. Brows knitted tight as she crouched low.
> 
> Cosette laid bare and exposed. Still, spent, the gag long forgotten. She'd stopped screaming when the mantra in her head took her someplace else to escape the nightmare.
> 
> The Nightingale raised a hand to her chin, lifting her. She'd always flinch before, a sign of expecting pain. Now, she didn't so much as move. She shut her eyes closed accepting the impending pain. She wished for it, to forget the sticky feeling between her legs, the pain and blood.
> 
> Sister Leliana sighed, pulling away before grabbing a blanket and covering her. She turned away, her posture stiff and fist shaking as she took steadying breaths. “I'm so sorry, Cosette.”
> 
> Sorry? She was **sorry**? She was sorry even though she started this entire thing. She couldn't accept that there were some things she couldn't speak, so she did this. They did this. There were some truths she couldn't reveal. They had to happen if things were to go as planned. Otherwise...Paradoxes, time loops, branching realities. But of course she couldn’t explain that. They wouldn’t get it, wouldn't understand. They wouldn’t accept anything less than everything she knew.
> 
> “Charter.” Leliana spoke to the agent at the door. "I'll need witherstalk sap."
> 
> Even though Cosette knew what happened, revealing even a little had been a mistake. Save a few lives, but then more people die. More people have died. **She** could have died.
> 
> Anger bubbled inside her, burning and festering. She hadn't thought she could feel this rage again. Not after everything; not after this night of hell.
> 
> “I didn't think...he- this was never meant to happen.” Leliana cut herself off when she saw Cosette’s piercing glare behind the rare tears. Relief, disbelief, and admiration flitted across her face before a small smile. “You've survived so much.”

The blood rushed in her ears and Cosette felt faint as the memory bombarded her. Disgust at her violation, the aftermath. She turned her head and all three spoonfuls of broth came broiling up and out. Only a quick wave of Vivienne’s hand caught the sick before she burned it up.

“Is that all I am?” Cosette’s voice cracked. “Information? Are you going to force me to talk by being nice? Make me like you only to twist my arm and beat me until I give you what you want?!” Cosette seethed. She was done. So done with this game. Cosette glared, bristling with anger.

“Good. You still have anger in you.” Vivienne commended. “Hold onto that, dear. You'll need it to survive the next few weeks.”

“Fuck you.” Cosette’s voice broke with a sob.

Unfazed by her outburst, Vivienne sighed. “You're ill. Recovery will be difficult as you gain weight and begin walking again, which will be especially painful and exhausting. For now, you need your rest.”

 _Recovery_? Cosette stared confused as Vivienne adjusted her so she was laying down now. She didn’t exactly have the strength to fight her. Why would they waste resources on her recovery? The only reason she could think of was information. She had nothing left to give. She gave them everything. Sometimes twice. They knew everything she knew. She hoped they figured that out soon enough.

 

* * *

 

Silverite dropped into the beaker creating a solution. In the cauldron elfroot boiled off it's excess oil. The extract was at eighty-four percent pure. She would need to burn off the excess water. The two would be mixed into an emulsion, shaken and heated to the right consistency before adding the redmoss. The emulsion would negate the fatally toxic effects of the root, allowing its hidden restorative effects to take effect. Then it would boil by magical flame for exactly seventy-five minutes. Once the solution was created, the snowy wyvern heart would be added at the last possible second. Or at least that was the theory.

A running theory that Vivienne now had confidence in. Before she’d been running compositions and experiments using drakes but wyverns were far more potent. It would only be more restorative if she used a dragon’s heart. But then the question would be which one of its chambers and how big would the cauldron need to be to house it. Nonetheless, the wyvern heart was the perfect size for her needs.

It was a remarkable advancement in her research.

Vivienne looked toward Cosette whom slept fitfully on the cot. Vivienne thought it wise to move her from the cold dreary landscape of the courtyard to her office. If only for the protections in place. Even Templars couldn’t get in here without her express permission. Between a combination of wards and various glyphs activated via runes, it was nigh impenetrable, save for herself and Surana.

Vivienne would not sit idly by while any mage suffered at the Inquisitor’s hands. Especially not one so young, damaged and broken. She wished she’d known of her in Haven, perhaps she might have stopped this injustice.

Though it did present the curious question of how Cosette came upon her knowledge. No one knew of her research. Just as she can imagine only the Magister Alexius and Dorian knew of their time magic. Yet to the Inquisitor and Leliana's testimony, Cosette was rather well informed.

Stepping to the bed, Vivienne peered down at Cosette. She checked her fever. Cosette reminded her of the mages in the Montsimmard circle who fell ill every winter. As Senior Enchanter with specialty in alchemical healing, it was her responsibility to tend to them — including the youngest ones.

Cosette emitted a troubled moan at her touch. She shifted, not to get away from Vivienne but to get closer. A whimper before she mumbled for her mother. Vivienne was loathed to pull away, so she remained for a moment, enduring Cosette's touch. Or that is what Vivienne told herself.  She waited until Cosette settled down again before pulling away.

Careful so as not to disturb her, Vivienne pulled up her resonance. Even far removed from the courtyard, the veil was thin around her. An unusual circumstance, but not so when you consider she carried so much pain on her. The veil became weak in areas of great tragedy. Cosette _is_ a great tragedy, naturally the veil responded. What was more remarkable was that no demons preyed upon her.

“You must have an astoundingly steel will, darling.” Vivienne whispered, tucking the blankets around her. She twisted the image, revealing her magical humors. Depleted, as before. All four mana types went directly to healing herself. And her aura, still retracted.

Pacing in spot, Vivienne gave it a harsh glare. The only way she could think to manipulate it back to how it should be – _No. That’d be too dangerous — but it could be the solution._

Tapping her bottom lip, she pressed a hand to Cosette’s head. It was the closest spot she could touch without pressing against her chest to reach her aura. Pulsing magic inward toward Vivienne’s own aura, it manifested before her, shining white with swirls of green, gold, and silver. It stretched beyond her hand toward Cosette’s tightly retracted aura. Cosette’s was dark bleak with a hint of purple. Depleted and funneling all of it’s functions to preservation.

Their auras touched, but stubbornly did not connect until Vivienne gave another push of magic.

Gasping, Vivienne yanked her hand back and stumbled away as a flash of a memory seared behind her eyes. The constant agony, fear, overshadowed by one warmth in a dark dungeon. A hand pressed to her chest. A low voice singing Tevinter lullabies in the dungeon. Pulses of magic between connected auras transferred magic and life force to a barely breathing, barely living Cosette.

Vivienne blinked away tears, a sob quelled beneath her palm. “Maker…” She gave a shaky breath to compose herself. But one thing was certain. It wasn’t blood magic that had retracted Cosette’s aura. It was healing magic. Tevinter healing magic. She needed a word with Gereon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now before you jump down my throat about some things in this chapter, as I know the fandom is want to. I would like to explain that Cullen is still in character. I've taken the often looked over facets of each of their personality and ramped them up to ten. Cullen, as much as he's a fandom fave, is not exempt from this. 
> 
> For example, Leliana, canonically wouldn't torture someone. Kill them yes, but even in the alternate future when she's been tortured for a year and freed and has the chance to cause as much pain as she could to Gereon, she instead kills Felix who is so sick and barely alive it's more of a mercy. So her role in this, is an extreme that wouldn't happen in canon. That's the beauty of fanfiction folks. 
> 
> Which is why Cullen is easy to justify Cosette's treatment. Between killing mages (DAO epilogue) to looking the other way when abuse, rape, and unlawful tranquility happened (DA2), he is no innocent. He only stood up to Meredith when she went crazy and even he couldn't justify what she was doing, aka killing everyone. In DAI if you recruit the mages and offer an alliance, he says: "It is not a matter for debate. There will be abominations amongst the mages, and we must be prepared." and then spits at the Inquisitor "What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight." Like mages are a bunch of misbehaving children or something? And we know that preparing for abominations means either to be prepared to kill them or test them to be sure they are abominations - which is torture (Lily's journal from Aeonar in WOT2 or parts in Asunder) - and then kill them. 
> 
> Now a note on Vivienne. Even if you have low approval with her, the worst she ever does is rearrange your shit. Which, considering what other companions do when you have low approval, that is MILD. That is Sera level of pranking. I mean Cassandra gets drunk! Cole leaves! But Vivienne never leaves (unless you've made her Divine), she grits her teeth and bears it because even if she disagrees with you, she won't leave a tyrant unchecked.


	16. Reunion

> Gereon held Cosette as close to his chest that the bars between them would allow. One arm wrapped around her middle, holding her up, the other tucked into her shirt with his hand splayed against her collarbone where he could feel both her heart and her breath. His aura spread swirling in blue, black, and yellow pulses to her solitary pink one. It was weak, barely visible as it was. They connected. The colors mixed as mana pumped from his blood into her depleted cores and magical humors, prolonging the inevitable.
> 
> He restrained a pained gasp as sensory emotions flowed between them. The sharp pain in her lungs as she struggled to breathe. The death rattle of her cough, and the ache in her bones and stomach. He would be sure to share his meal but first he had to undo the deeper damages.
> 
> Two days she’d been held away in that chamber. Not nearly as long as the week she’d spent away but this was markedly better than the initial damage he had healed.
> 
> If you could call staving off the damage and injuries that would have killed her in but a few minutes, healing. Then sure. Otherwise, healing was an overstatement.
> 
> “How do you feel, child?” Gereon suppressed a strained cough as he pulled away from the bars. Cosette could sit up on her own, breath, and she was no longer that deathly blue and grey.
> 
> “Better. Thank you, Gereon.” Her eyes cast downward.
> 
> He sighed, shifting before pushing aside his exhaustion to slide his food tray close enough for her to grab. “Eat.”
> 
> “I’m not...really hungry.”
> 
> “Do not lie, child. I felt how your stomach pained you.” Gereon chided. It was true. With their aura connected he felt what she felt.
> 
> “And I felt how exhausted you are. I’m at least used to going a few days without food. You aren’t.” Cosette pushed the tray back. Unfortunately, she also felt what he did. It was a two way connection as he was no expert. They came to an impasse, the problem was that Gereon would be the one to back down in the end. With the strength of will she had, she managed to cling on to life despite the lack of nutrients.
> 
> He had a running theory. There were many signs to explain why she lived so, but there was no way to test any of them.
> 
> The veil had already been thin so close to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A fact Corypheus took advantage. The Breach further damaged the veil allowing the fade to be more easily accessible. The fade passed through the veil. Even the most novice of mages felt the difference and utilized it. Gereon especially could feel it.
> 
> Unfortunately the Temple of Sacred Ashes also held a large deposit of lyrium below. A fact utilized by the Templars nearby, however unintentionally. So while mages had greater access to magic and the fade, so too did Southern Templars toward their lyrium.
> 
> Gereon hadn’t truly understood the full scope of how Templars obtained their abilities but it was something to do with lyrium reaffirming reality. Or so Cosette explained to him, warning him not to use his magic against them to attempt an escape.
> 
> Cosette was a mage. He could sense it the moment their aura’s bonded. She was a newly realized mage. An exceedingly late bloomer being well into her twenties. Unusual but not entirely unheard of. Late bloomers never reached their full potential and burnt their magic out too soon in their attempt to catch up with their peers. He doubted she would get the chance to burn out. Nonetheless, Cosette was a mage, and one in need of teaching, or that was his first thought until he sensed her unconscious efforts.
> 
> Her will took the magic she had and utilized it in the same way the Templars did to combat magic. It kept it away, kept it from affecting her, reaffirmed her reality. Or what she believed her reality was. Her daily meditations and walks around her cell empowered this and her core. No matter how weak her core was, it was open. Gaping wide and allowing the fade in via a small stream that powered her. Or rather her health. It was the only thing fueling her when she didn’t – couldn't – eat.
> 
> When his aura connected to hers, it allowed him to sense how her mana was distributed. While he could use aura manipulation to improve on it, limit it to certain bodily functions, like her brain, her heart, and her lungs; it would be better suited to be accompanied and augmented with proper mana meditations. All she would need then would be to choose what to prioritize. What was most important to her? Mind, Body, or Soul?

She chose Mind.

Gereon’s shoulders sagged upon seeing Cosette. His hands shook, testing how far he could approach. His gaze flicked toward Madame de Fer and his once apprentice, Dorian, asking for silent permission from them before the Templar Guard Lysette let him loose and free of his chains.

The chains clanged against each other soon as his wrists were bare. His knees hit the floor beside her cot. Quick to touch her clammy with fever forehead, he sent a pulse of magic to her aura, his own seeking hers out in desperation.

He lost Felix. There was still time to do some good with what he learned. To help her.

“That’s enough.” Vivienne warned as his aura swirled. Her own magic flared to push him away but he glowered, clinging to the girl.

“Don’t. You’ll endanger us both.” He croaked as he pushed his own energies into her. Redirecting it toward her body and soul. She was getting sustenance regularly, she didn’t need to keep doing this. Why had she directed her meditations toward just her mind and nothing else?

She stirred, her eyes rolled, lids raised and for the first time she laid eyes on him where bars did not separate them. He obtained flashes of her memories before she gained full awareness. He understood now. She’d given up.

“Ge-gereon.”

“Oh, Cosette.” He warbled as he pulled his magic back. Her arms flung up and around him. Her hug was light. He held her with the utmost care. Frail and fragile as she was, any wrong move and he could break something. As if her arm wasn’t still broken and recovering.

“Ge-gereon?! You’re...alive!” She was quick to sit back, eyes wide. Tears threatened to fall.

“Yes I am-”

“I thought you died.”

“I know. The Inquisitor saw some use in me still.”

“She _hated_ you _._ ” It was true. The few times the Inquisitor, then Herald, visited the Haven dungeons she spat vitriol at him and his actions from the alternate future. “Why...why would she spare you? Why…” The unspoken question filled her eyes. _Why would she spare me?_

“A question for the ages.” Dorian spoke from his chair. A handkerchief tucked away into his robe pocket. Gereon spotted his kohl lining was less thick, as though wiped away by some moisture. He did not comment. “Has nothing at all to do with me. Certainly.”

Gereon meant to reply but Vivienne approached. “Yes, yes, much as this reunion is touching, there is a more important matter, darling. Your health.” Vivienne approached the lavish cot the girl was laid in. She took up the position opposite to Gereon and looked Cosette over. “I will be performing a diagnostic spell on you, may I have your permission?”

“Permission?” Cosette’s brows furrowed.

“It is customary to ask for permission to perform magic on another mage, should they be conscious. Especially one so unused to magic as yourself.” Vivienne explained.

“Customary?” Cosette looked at Gereon.

“Really? You southerners are so odd.” Dorian mumbled.

“Clearly, Tevinter does not hold the same cordial customs and respect for their fellow mages.”

“Maybe it’s just a male thing?” Cosette muttered, but nodded.

“What an astute observation.” Vivienne quirked with a lilt of her smile. She held her hand out. Her manicured nails clean and pristine, caused Cosette to pause. Shame and insecurity waylaid her. She knew what her hands looked like, what her lack of nails were like. “It’s alright.”

Cosette sent a questioning look to Gereon who merely nodded reassuringly. Carefully, she slid her hand into Vivienne’s. With quick work and without the use of a staff, magic filled the cot, wrapping around Cosette. She felt her heart in her throat, hand squeezing Vivienne’s as an electrical tingle spread through her body. Pins and needles spread and she whined.

“Careful, child. Just stay still.” Gereon assured her.

“What’s happening?” Cosette tried to ask as her tongue went numb, a low ringing in the back of her skull had her teeth chattering.

“I am performing a spell to pull your magical resonant.”

Wispy tendrils raised from her body, removing the numbing sensation but forming an image above her. They called it a _resonant_. Yet it looked like a live scan of her circulatory system. But resonant would mean it was like an MRI? _Magical_ Resonance Imaging? She smiled. In a world of magic, at least there was something familiar even if it was different. There were larger veins and arteries that looked dry and dark - empty.

“Fascinating, I hadn’t thought the Southern Chantry allowed such study.” Gereon scanned the image.

“Not usually, but given the status of Mages everywhere, I can freely study the body.” Vivienne twisted the mapping to showcase the cluster of channels and veins that were empty. “The problem lies here. With her aura retracted, there are channels that have been almost entirely closed off, preventing the necessary sustenance and mana to be distributed. I understand you have some expertise in such things, to release the retracted aura?” Vivienne eyed Gereon as he rose from his position, eyeing the scan.

“Yes. Though only in so far as a family healer.”

“Don’t be modest, Alexius.” Dorian joined them. “You would often perform this on-” Cosette cleared her throat, shooting Dorian a glare through the scan. Dorian glanced down remembering himself. “Apologies.”

“Yes. Though the retracted aura in my son was a temporary fix. The aura was never retracted for more than a few days at a time. Cosette’s has been so for...months? If I did release her aura, it would be shocking to her system. Send her into a coma-”

“Coma?” Cosette squeaked.

“Don’t worry, child. I wouldn’t let it happen.” Gereon patted her shoulder. “It would have to be done slowly, with proper nutrition, activity, and rejuvenation poultices, oils, and potions. A combination of efforts, not to mention constant care and support from a rehabilitist.”

“A rehabilitist?” Vivienne was unfamiliar with the magical specialty

Gereon squinted. Did they not have those in the south?

“Ah, they call them something else down South, Alexius.”

“Do they? How queer.” Gereon shook his head.

“I believe they are… oh it’s remarkably simple and on the tip of my tongue.” Dorian huffed. “Ah, spirit healers.”

“A spirit healer?”

“Yes, their connection with the gentler spirits offers them the necessary temperament to aid in recovery from particularly devastating injury, trauma, or in some cases over indulgence.”

“I can imagine there was a large need for such mages under the Imperium.” Vivienne could see it now. Lyrium and opium addicts, drunks, the works, all needing such care.

“Actually the largest use was for those returning from Seheron. Hence why… I had to take up the baser studies to help Felix.” Gereon sighed. “At least it can still be of some use until we find a dedicated rehabilitist.”

“Sadly, spirit healing is not an area easily allowed study. For it often led to abominations. And those that remained even after the mages rebelled...” Vivienne frowned, looking toward the Templar guard who watched them. “Well, they were seen as threats by the Order. We will have to make do without one.”

“Perhaps Solas could be of help?” Dorian asked. “He seems to have a close relationship with spirits.”

“No.” Gereon barked. His hand protectively over Cosette. Her resonant vibrated out of focus, becoming a vibrant red as mana pulled away from the channels and veins, protectively flowing toward her mind. He swallowed thickly, before righting the flow. “He is no healer. I wouldn’t trust her to his hand.”

“Hmm, true. And I wouldn’t wish to endure his smug look were I to ask for his aid in anything magical.” Dorian was flippant, aware of his former mentor’s tenseness.

Vivienne was not so easily placated, but kept silent. For now.

“Isn’t…” Cosette spoke but her voice died down as she rethought it. “Doesn’t...no… nevermind.” All three mages stilled as Cosette looked away.

“What is it, child?”

“Do speak up, my dear.”

Cosette stiffened at their collective gazes on her. Cosette screwed her eyes shut for a moment, she opened them. “What...about Anders?”

“Anders? Is there a rehabilitist from the Anderfels that you know?” Gereon tilted his head. Cosette knew a great deal, but a rehabilitist from the Anderfels?

“No, Alexius I believe she’s talking about-” Dorian added but was quickly interrupted.

“The mage responsible for the Kirkwall Chantry's explosion? The reason the Chantry sent an Exalted March on Kirkwall? The reason the Grand Enchanter forced a vote to break from the Chantry?” Vivienne was stiff, with a narrowed gaze. “You expect me to believe he would be able to help?”

“Ah...em… yes?” Cosette squeaked, curling back into the blankets.

There was a fierce and deadly quality to Vivienne’s gaze as she weighed Cosette’s words before her expression softened. “I dare say, if you know where he is, I doubt the Inquisitor would be as lenient to allow me to care for you, considering his crimes.”

“Well I...don’t know where he is.” Cosette added.

“Ah...very well. I will send a missive to the loyalists that remain, see if any know of a spirit healer-”

“But...I do know who might know where Anders is.” Cosette added.

“Who might that be?”

“Hawke.”

* * *

 

“I hurt. I hurt.” Cole cried and pled. With broken compassion, he bled and rearing despair, he fled like a thief - far as he dared, he wished to be brief 

For the Herald left many in need, yet the lands of hinter had agreed to help and support the Inquisition’s force, despite only them needing a horse.

He joined the inquisition to help and to aid, of which he provided to many in spades. But the Herald was not what he thought at first, with dark thoughts and desires, she was a curse. 

She was a saint compared to the wolf in disguise, for they ordered Her* plight and hid it in lies. But nothing was quite as cruel as the hand of Pride who slipped between the folds to plot and bide

Hidden and hushed, She* couldn’t remember him. Yet recalls the Bull's twisting temper with whim. She cried and choked, desperate for mercy, yet none heard, not even the ear of controversy. 

Secrets whispered between halla and raven all to find the Dread Wolf in Haven.

 

Utilizing his grief and mounting sorrow, he left to hunt rams, for meat on the morrow. “I help. I help.” Cole whispered and cried. He needed to reaffirm to stay on this side.

The last bandit fell from his weeping blades. No more would they be disruptor of trades. Cole’s arms fell limp when the way was cleared. He gave the area a look over as he sneered.

With want and desire, Cole would persist to soothe the hurts, so he would exist. Finish the things the Herald meant to do. As news spread, they might get a clue 

Hunger quelled and supply caches found, the farmland was drained as it had been drowned by demons and water, and rifts all around. Herbs picked and a gravestone flower crowned.

He paid respects to the raging ram and led the druffalo past the dam. He freed the wolves enslaved by Terror, though now he was the packmaster bearer

He returned lost items; a ring and a letter, even a phylactery, he hoped she felt better.

 

He found a stubborn healer on cliffs of red who wouldn’t help, not even for the dead. He meant to assure she would do good, until he saw a man pull off his hood.

With old song in his blood, Cole knew the man was Templar on rendezvous. With an aged face he could recall; Cole felt his fist ready to maul

The man who had held the key to the real Cole’s misery. “You.” Cole seethed. “You killed me!” He’d make him three.

“What?” He fell back and sputtered with fear “I don’t even know you.” He proceeded to sneer.

“You forgot.” Cole spat as he glared. He watched for him to run, if he dared. 

“You locked me in the dungeon in the spire.” Teeth grit, he’d make him expire. “You forgot and I died in the dark.” He forgot him, there was no mark.

The lyrium had damaged his memory. No matter, Cole would make him see.

“Look into my eyes.” Cole grinned wide as he shared when the real Cole died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Sorry for the long delay. Between final semester projects, holiday nonsense and my general lack of muse to write it was... honestly a chore to even try to write. But thankfully in the new year I've got my mojo back. The chapter's a bit shorter than my usual but I gave ya'll a treat to a brief look into Cole and what he's been up to. Specifically in the hell that was writing in rhyme. Absolute madness. 
> 
> * - refers to Cosette. 
> 
> REALMCRAFTING: (New section to explain bits and pieces in the fic to expand the world)  
> \- Rehabilitist: a Magical physical therapist and rehab therapist. Spirit Healers and their close relationship with gentler/kinder spirits make perfect therapists. Consider Wynne and Anders. But given the Southern Chantry's prejudice against spirit mingling, they wouldn't utilize them for that sort of healing. Instead they are wasted on combatants.
> 
> \- Magical Resonance Imaging: You've heard of MRIs, magnetic resonance imaging, this is Thedas's equivalent. Thedas relies on sound for its magic (lyrium sings). It wouldn't be too far to say they have adapted ways to see inside the body, given study of cadavers is forbidden by the Southern Chantry. Of course they wouldn't fully understand it all and only have so much visible (in the South), and what they do would be closely linked to their understanding of the humors.
> 
> Anyway let me know what ya'll think!


	17. Secrets

The return to Skyhold was quiet. The Chargers had succeeded in helping the Blades of Hessarian on the coast with some darkspawn sightings. They would need the help of Blackwall to find where the darkspawn were coming from to block them off. There was also a rash of earthquakes along the Coast. For now, it seemed quiet. Though the Inquisition had scouts in the area watching.

Nonetheless, the Chargers returned to Skyhold exhausted. Stitches was pensive. Encountering darkspawn had left him sleeping fitfully, reminded of his time during the blight. He dragged his feet as they entered the courtyard. He needed a good solid drink and a sleeping draught from the apothecary. Anything so he didn't have to see those monsters again in his dreams.

Stitches walked into Skinner who had stopped in the middle of the courtyard. She faced the makeshift infirmary.

"What is-" He looked up to see one tent was open with several soldiers on cots. It was the cot they had placed Cosette in. He had left Skyhold knowing she was in good hands with the Surgeon yet, where was she?

"We have to find her." Her Orlesian accent was heavy with bridled anger. She took off up the stairs without waiting for them.

"Shouldn't we tell the Chief?" Stitches muttered.

Dalish gave him a sharp shake of her head. The Iron Bull had gone ahead of them, riding in the night when one of the Spymaster's ravens had come. They returned to Skyhold a day later than him.

"The Chief did that to her." Dalish spoke low enough so only the others in the core company heard. None of the others had known that. Dalish took off after Skinner.

Stitches needed a drink. Now. He found it in the Herald's Rest. And another and another.

He'd seen a great many tragic things. Women halfway dragged off by the darkspawn animals before they killed themselves. Dark thoughts of what they would do to them led them to such measures. No one knew what happened to those whose corpses weren't found, and no one wanted to know. As a medic, it didn't take long to connect why they only dragged the women off. Those darkspawn had to come from somewhere.

Cosette's treatment was horrific. If it'd been a darkspawn who'd done it, she would be another victim of the blight. That he could handle. But the Chief, responsible? The Iron Bull. A fake Tal-Vashoth. His boss. His friend.

He felt sick.

Stitches took a long drink to push the building bile back.

He'd done his due diligence and examined her. She was alive after all. Not dead. Even if they thought otherwise. Technically not against Chantry law.

When his preliminary examination was complete, he'd called Skinner in for a more invasive examination. He didn't feel comfortable doing so without another woman present. The last time he'd seen a woman as a patient, he'd been called in due to complications by a midwife.

He'd seen every inch of her skin under his medical eye. The poor thing. What horrific things must have been done to her. The damage to her person was one thing, but to her…

He ordered another drink.

He'd taken an oath when he studied medicine. And only broke that when he'd lifted a blade when it was needed. Mayhaps his blade wasn't needed anymore. Perhaps the world needed more medics, more doctors; more lives being saved instead of killed.

"I'm thinking of retiring from the Chargers."

Grim set a small wooden cup of the strongest dwarven ale Cabot had on stock. Grim said nothing as Stitches shot the dwarven ale back down his throat before chasing it with more ale.

The Iron Bull entered the tavern with a cheeky grin. Stitches wanted to wipe that off him but didn't. He was a medic, barely a mercenary as it was. He was no match. Instead, he stewed and drank.

Bull sat in his usual spot. Krem was not too far, in his blind spot, but he was stiffer in his shoulders than usual.

"A round, Cabot." Bull ordered with a laugh. "Darkspawn, right?" He sagged to look like he was relaxing as he took a huge swallow of his ale. Not that it would do much. Took a lot more to get The Iron Bull tipsy.

Stitches watched him. The core group knew Bull was Ben Hassrath. How far did that allegiance to the Qun really go? He looked friendly as usual, but he was a spy. Stitches wouldn't be able to tell anything else was off if he wanted to. Likely Bull even knew most of them were tense, but he wasn't asking.

"So Chief…" Krem broached the subject. "About that girl."

"This about Maryden?" Bull laughed loud enough that Maryden might have heard had it not been for Krem's cough. Krem's cheeks pinked a tad but rolled his eyes.

"No, the one we found in Haven." Krem corrected with a swig.

"Oh." Bull's sole eye squinted, his head shifted.

If Stitches didn't know any better, he'd say he saw Bull's shoulders tense. Couldn't be. How much had Stitches had to drink?

"What about her? She doing okay?" Bull directed the question at Stitches.

Why was he asking him?

"You tell us." Stitches mumbled into his goblet.

"Speak up, Stitch, didn't catch that." Bull's smile set Stitches off.

With a snarl he slammed his goblet down. "You did that to her." What was he doing?! "You hurt her. Over and over." His words slurred, and his steps faltered as he tried to come around to spit in Bull's face, but he couldn't get a footing.

"Stitch, you're drunk." Bull tried to reason.

"I am?" Stitches looked bewildered. "I am."

"Maybe you ought to get some rest. You haven't been sleeping well."

"Ya damn right I haven't. Thought I joined a company that helped people. Saved lives." Stitches wouldn't stop speaking. He couldn't. Grim tried to pull him back but he pushed him off. "Thought I would do good. Didn't know I was helping a savage." Stitch breathed heavy, swaying in spot. "You _violated_ her."

Bull's sole eye closed in a grimace.

"Stitch." Krem stood up but Stitches smacked his hand.

"I'm a medic...I-I had to be thorough. I had to check." His words trailed off as he growled. "Scars indicative of damage by pen…" Stitches closed his eyes. He couldn't say it. He could not say it out loud. Instead, he threw up. Grim was quick with a bucket. Bull reached out to help but Grim glared as he shuffled Stitches off.

What remained of the Chargers left, retiring early. Not Krem. Krem stayed beside Bull until they were alone.

"About the girl." Krem wanted to ask, to get it straight. What Stitch said, that couldn't be true right? He turned toward Iron Bull, with a last hint of hope.  _Please, refute this._

Bull rose, breathed a heavy sigh, jaw tight. He faced Krem. "What happened to the bas is between the spymaster and the Inquisitor."

 

* * *

 

Dalish pressed Skinner against the corridor wall. "Breathe." She instructed.

"We have to find her." Skinner's pupils were blasted wide in panic. Her breath heavy, forehead clammy. She broke off into mutterings of Orlesian. Dalish could barely follow but a few words were clear. Sister and nobles.

"Skin." Dalish lowered and met Skinner's gaze. "We've looked everywhere, maybe...maybe she ...?" She didn't want to entertain the thought the woman had died.

"Non!" Skinner cried. "Mon canard…" her words warbled at the thought. Her lips trembling before she hardened. Angry curses flying out. Her teeth bared, and her fingers searched for her daggers. Anything to make them pay. Dalish had to press a calming kiss to her and trap her arms. Otherwise she would get free.

"Skinner…" Dalish braced her shoulders. Cosette's disappearance must have reminded Skinner of when the nobles preyed on the elves in the alienage. Some days, elves were gone. But one day they targeted Skinner's sister. She found her weeks later, after having been "traded" amongst the nobles until she no longer fought back. Starved, weak, and docile. She was still recovering.

"Find her." Skinner pleaded with a sob. "We have to find her." Skinner broke off into Orlesian again. Dalish couldn't follow except for the curses.

"We've looked everywhere." Dalish said.

"No… non." Skinner shook her head. "Not everywhere."

"Skinner…" Dalish shook her head. "That only works where the veil is thin."

"You said Skyhold was like that." Skinner hissed.

"But it's…" Dalish grimaced. She regretted telling Skinner she could walk the fade. Outside of Skyhold, she needed lyrium to do so. But here, it was as easy as closing her eyes. The veil was a paper-thin curtain that she pushed back when dreaming. "Alright, but we need to go somewhere safe." Dalish had seen Skinner kill an entire company of Venatori on her own. She had no doubt she'd tear the entirety of Skyhold looking for Cosette. "I need you to promise me you will watch over me."

Skinner nodded. They found a small room and locked it from the inside.

It took a long time. Long enough for Skinner's heart to stop thumping, for the sweat to cool and dry off her brow, and for her eyelids to droop.

Dalish watched, intending on sleeping herself to at least take a quick look in the fade. But perhaps she didn't have to.

Soon as that thought happened, she was staring at Skyhold in the fade. She was in the same room, seeing her slumped body against the corner with Skinner wrapped around her. Their bodies pressed tight. Their forms wispy and light until it faded. The silver cord that connected her to her body the only thing visible now. To find her way back to her body she would have to follow it if she ventured too far.

A technique she learned once her clan kicked her out. Some days, she wondered why Ellana had been chosen over her, until she remembered Ellana had always been the favorite.

Then again, Ellana was now the Inquisitor and wielded the anchor. Dalish doubted she would be able to handle such magic herself.

She wondered what her former Keeper would think of what Ellana had done so far with all that power.

Dalish shook her head as she left the room via the ceiling. Walking across the ceiling and into the next room by manipulating the fade around her.

The first time she'd done this had been in an elven ruin. One clan Lavellan had found. She'd been a mageling the first time they'd visited it. But she remembered the way and how it had felt. Faint prickling and shiny wisps fluttering in and out. She'd been in awe of the place, until a demon showed itself.

The Fade was wonderous, so long as you avoided its inhabitants. Demons, spirits, other dreamers. That last one was rare but in Skyhold it seemed almost every elven mage wandered the fade here. There were even some human ones. Dalish tried not to run into the other dreamers. Most of them were oblivious of what they were seeing. Some of the more skilled mages however, knew exactly what was happening and took measures. Wards around them outside of the fade to keep demons away, templar runes to prevent magic, or a templar guard to keep them grounded and out of the fade for fear of what they would see. There were so many methods to cut off the fade. Of course, there was only one permanent method. Dalish shivered at the thought.

Dalish didn't know why anyone would want to cut themselves off from the fade. If you could find a safe spot like Skyhold. There were no demons here.

Well, not true. There was the Inquisitor's pet demon. Thank Mythal she'd never encountered him.

She looked around. It was still early that hardly any of the said dreamers were around. A mageling child napping was running amongst a field of wisps in the distant mountains. Besides them was a mage apprentice. Dalish paused, staring hard at them. Were they a mage apprentice?

She collected a passing wisp. Using the essence of the fade itself she collected enough power to change its shape. Encouraging it until it could take flight with the white wings of a dove. "Make sure the mage finds their body." She gave it purpose. Wisps were useful like that. You encouraged them to form, to take shape, and they will fulfill the purpose you gave them. Most wisps were too small to retain the one purpose, but sometimes… weird things happened.

Another dove, this one she knew, perched itself on her shoulder. Its purpose had been fulfilled and it came for a new one. "Lead me to the others." She spoke softly.

The dove puffed its chest up and seemed to grow. There was one of the weird things that happened. With each new purpose, some wisps grew. Like this one. Soon it would be too big to perch on her shoulder. It soared ahead of her, circling in the sky before perching on the ramparts by what would be the Great Hall's reflection. She approached and opened the doors. It flew in and she followed it onto a staircase. It waddled across the floor and stopped at a door where the other doves lingered.

These were all hers. She'd formed them for the sole purpose of protecting Cosette from those who would cause her harm, like the Inquisitor's pet demon.

They cooed and trilled as she approached. "Good work." She pet them. Another one grew and took flight to join the other larger ones.

Dalish went to open the door to the room but found she couldn't. No, it wasn't that she couldn't it was when she opened it she was looking down into the abyss of the waterfalls and side of the cliff that Skyhold perched on. As though the room behind that door, didn't exist, or wasn't reflected in the fade.

She'd never encountered that. She looped around to see if she could will her way another door, but nothing. It was empty, like it never existed.

Holding her hand out, one of the dove-wisps landed and she poured some of her magic into it and reshaped it until it was a large falcon, with sharp talons. It cawed in all its majestic glory.

"Attack the door."

It leapt into the air, circling to gain speed and swiped at the door in a dive. Its talons screeching. It left a large scratch.

"Again."

Nothing happened that time and it seemed the scratch healed. "Faster." She instructed the falcon and charged up a spell. They took turns attacking but each attack did less and less damage until it was healed and impenetrable.

"Fenedhis!" Dalish growled and went to pound on the door when it opened.

"Teneria?" Ellana gasped.

 

* * *

 

Ellana gasped as her silver cord yanked her back to her body, where she sat up in her seat at the War Table. Blood rushing to her head and drool and spit tracked down her cheek. She was barely conscious enough to hear the Iron Bull punch the wall.

"Bull, I know you're angry, but can we please stop destroying the castle." Cullen hissed at the mercenary.

"Red, that bastard used  _my face, my body_  to-"

"Hissrad. Calm yourself before a memory is reflected." Leliana barked. Bull seethed but nodded. His eyes closed as he counted. Leliana with all the calmness she could muster, strode to the locked war chest. She pulled two amulets from a smaller chest out and handed one to Josie who slotted it on the door. Its runes activated, silencing the room and the other she set on the table. With one glove removed, she touched it.

Cullen removed one gauntlet. He was only recently introduced to this ritual and practice. The amulet hid any who wore it or touched it from prying eyes in the Fade. Many times, he'd considered borrowing it to sleep with. For the peace of mind.

The amulet had been a gift from one of Leliana's companions during the Fifth Blight. One who had recently resurfaced in Orlais some months before the Conclave. They had allowed Dagna to examine the amulet to replicate the effects. Dagna, ever the arcanist, magical scholar, and researcher, had been tasked with many such projects.

Josie placed a single finger on it, abandoning her quill and board. No records were to be taken during these meetings.

Bull placed one finger on it as he controlled his breathing and emotions. All of them turned to Ellana who stared at them. She was coming to, having placed the last protective barrier around Vivienne's study. It was where Cosette slept. She wanted to be sure no one would bother her, not while she could do something about it. With her new studies into rift magic, she was able to manipulate the fade even while dreaming. Something she imagined no  _shem_  was capable of and only the most dedicated of elven mages could accomplish.

"Ellana?"

She looked up, pushing the grogginess of sleep away.

"We're going to have a visitor." She stood on shaky legs, making her way to the door.

"What? Who?"

"Inquisitor, you know we mustn't let others know-"

"It's my sister." She stated, stopping all protests. She opened the door to Dalish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing that last scene where they all touch the amulet, was like Captain Planet in my head. I could just hear "By your powers combined..." Bull would be Earth, Cullen - Fire, Leliana - Wind, Lavellan - Water, and Josie - Heart. xD
> 
> I should really go to bed...
> 
>  
> 
>  **REALMCRAFTING:** Ever wonder how Morrigan hid herself from Flemeth until the Well revealed where she was? All the time? I present the amulet of concealment! The same sort of magic that hid the warden from the Darkspawn when leaving the Kocari Wilds. Now gifted to a Leliana near you~


	18. Overt

Vivienne strolled into her study. The locking glyphs gave no audible sound as they resealed behind her. Vivienne wore a cheongsam neck lined robe with the skirt split in the front and back, allowing free range of motion.The robe was royale sea silk white with gold kings weave willow trims. A black infused vyrantium samite coverlet and leather over-the-clothes corset. The sleeves of her undershirt was tight in the same royale sea silk. The split in the skirt revealed thick white leggings underneath with heavy and elegant white leather boots up to her knees. Gold accentuated the entire ensemble. In her hands she held a pair of thin leather gloves she had yet to pull on.

The loosening of the veil around her ward was a familiar feeling now. The boost in access to magic sent a shiver down her spine with worry. She feared everyday there would be demons or that Cosette would possess. But each time, she only sensed the barest touch of wisps. They aggregated around Cosette, like moths to a flame. Initially she’d been aghast they congregated thus. For if they drew near, then a demon would easily. Yet, Cosette didn’t seem the slightest bit aware of them. No doubt all her magical faculties and senses were preoccupied with healing.

Cosette lay in bed covered in a warm set of blankets and her head wrapped in a scarf for protection. It allowed her still healing scalp air circulation yet protected from movements in bed.  She slept in a white cotton slip and trousers with thick wool socks. All provided by Vivienne. It was a simple comfort, nothing extravagant, but one Vivienne wanted to be sure Cosette had.

Vivienne would ensure Cosette no longer suffered or wanted for anything. A sentiment shared by Josephine who had a runner deliver a fresh stack of pillows and clothes that would fit with a bit of modification. Nothing extravagant, but it would do until Vivienne’s seamstress received her missive.

She placed her hand gently against Cosette’s forehead. Her fever was thankfully gone, but the dry nature of her skin would need to be fixed. A regiment of lotions and oils would need to be utilized.

She trailed her fingers down Cosette’s face, gently examining her. Her cheeks were gaunt and hollow and her eyes sunken, but with each day it filled just a little more.

“Ma?” Cosette’s sleepy groan had Vivienne’s expression soften. Cosette pressed closer to her hand, seeking out further warmth and touch. Her worried and furrowed brows softened. Vivienne’s fingers strayed, letting Cosette enjoy the comfort of touch as her fingers sought hers and intertwined. Vivienne steeled herself as she allowed the woman her small comfort, even if it was a lie. She hadn’t the heart to pull away just yet. How long had she been deprived of the simplest of touches in the Haven dungeons? How long further still?

“Wake up, darling.” Vivienne called to her.

“Morning.” Cosette’s mumbled her greeting as her eyelids fluttered opened and she yawned. She didn’t so much as cover her mouth.

“Pardon?” Vivienne asked, patiently waiting for Cosette to correct her verbiage. She gave her clemency as she is a victim and recovering but manners should be upheld. Especially if she was going to move forward with her plans. The Inquisitor and Leliana got away with the gross negligence and treatment by hiding Cosette away. Such treatment and secrecy ended **now**.  

Cosette stared at Vivienne. Three days since she woke in this room. Three days of being fed every morning by the tranquil Surana and being in the presence of Vivienne as she worked. This was her study, her temporary place of work within Skyhold. It always smelled of some herbs and fire. Constantly warm, dry, and well lit. A huge contrast to the cold, damp, and dark of the dungeons.

“Good Morning, Madame Vivienne.” Cosette corrected herself. Her chin tucked down as Vivienne gestured to the nearby bowl of porridge and orange.

> Bull came armed with a bowl of porridge and one single orange. He’d held both out to her. But she didn’t care about that. Instead she was apprehensive of him taking a seat in the sole chair of the room, signaling he would be there for more than hour. There were two ways the visit would go.
> 
> Cosette faltered, unsure if she should reach out for the food. Their presence alone meant it might be a good visit, or it would be bad and the food would make her sick. She couldn’t be sick again after Leliana’s last visit. Her fingers still bled through the bandages.
> 
> But Bull set the bowl on one knee and patted the other, waiting for her to join him. Cosette gave a relieved sigh. She scurried over and sat on his knee. If she pressed close to his side, he didn’t say and didn’t seem to mind. His body warmth bled into her.
> 
> “What did you and Red talk about?”
> 
> Yes, she was sure this was a good visit. He only asked about what Leliana was doing to recap, to make sure he wasn’t going over the same things and to be on the same page as her. She was a busy woman afterall. Cosette on the other hand, was not.
> 
> “Leliana asked me about eluvians.”
> 
> “Eluvians?”
> 
> “A magical mirror that allows travel into the Crossroads, all over Thedas, and the fade. The elves used it as their roads. But they can transport the blight and become blighted objects. Any who touches them becomes tainted.”
> 
> “Which means they are alive, like lyrium.” Bull nodded.
> 
> “I told her the Qun has been researching Eluvians.” Cosette mumbled as Bull rubbed her back. Bull scooped up some porridge and held it out to her, like a child. “I-...I can do that.” She mumbled. She wanted to make sure there wasn’t any hidden leaves like last time. Poison ivy on your esophagus would not have been fun. It’s a good thing she wasn’t allergic and her hands were covered in bandages.
> 
> “Alright.” He held the spoon to her and though her hands shook, she swirled the porridge around, trying to see through it. Bull watched her with that single eye, an intensity to it as she kept looking.
> 
> His gaze heavy on her, prickled and panicked her. Her hands shook harder, anticipating him grabbing them or smacking her. Cosette stuffed her mouth quick, chewing and swallowing. The heat of it burned her tongue and throat but she did it again and again until the bowl was empty and her stomach was fuller than full and she felt sick.
> 
> “Hungry?” He chuckled.
> 
> Cosette stretched a messy smile, tears in her eyes and nodded.
> 
> His smile dropped. “Hey.”
> 
> “Sorry,” she warbled. “Thank you for the food!” She mumbled quick. She didn’t want a good visit to turn bad.
> 
> Bull gave a low aggravated hum.
> 
> “It was really good!” Cosette bubbled, only her stomach gurgled louder. She’d eaten too fast.  “I’m sorry!” She managed to half mumble before stumbling away and spewing everything she ate. She apologized again and again, even as she heaved.
> 
> Bull’s shadow fell on her.
> 
> “I’m sorry! I’ll eat it!” She began scooping it up to eat, but he stopped her.
> 
> “Don’t do that, let it out.” He instructed her. He had to forcefully pull her away. “Next time, eat slower. No need to rush.”
> 
> Cosette coughed, confused. “That's not what you said last ti-” She stopped, remembering what he’d told her last time. He did not like to repeat himself.
> 
> Bull was still and quiet for a long time.
> 
> “Listen to me,” Bull pulled her up until she was standing and he crouched low enough to meet her gaze. “Do you know what a watchword is?”
> 
> Cosette shook then, eyes wide. Afraid where this would go. Her heart thundered with a wild pattern.
> 
> “Do you know what mine is?” Bull stared hard. “Don’t say it.” Bull nodded. “Now...back to what you discussed last with Red.”

Cosette eyed the porridge. She didn’t feel hungry. Had no desire to eat, but Vivienne was watching. At least she didn’t have to force herself to eat more than she could, like in Haven. She took two spoonfuls of porridge, no longer needing Surana’s help. Then she descended on the pre-sliced orange. She sucked and chewed, making a mess.

Vivienne let her eat without a gaze on her. Her focus shifted to that of her potion. Vivienne spent much of the last three nights researching the regenerative properties of dragon liver.

A few weeks ago the Inquisitor had killed another dragon. This one nesting in Crestwood. It’s scale, bone, and webbing had been thoroughly harvested for the armaments. The organs, blood, and anything of salvage went to the University of Orlais for study. But she’d had a request accompany it. A request sent to Professor Frederic of Serault. He was the leading researcher on Draconology.

If a snowy wyvern heart would not help Bastien, perhaps a Dragon’s would. She’d had the Inquisition mark the High Dragon’s heart especially for Frederic, perfectly preserved for study.

She’d had the Tranquil collect several tomes from Skyhold’s library for further research. Scale and Bone: Crafting the High Dragon, The Dragons of Nevarra, The Dragons of Tevinter by Brother Timious, Discovering Dragon's Blood: Potions, Tinctures, and Spicy Sauces by Ferdinand Pentaghast, and of course A Study of the Southern Draconids by Frederic of Serault.  All books tantamount to her shift in research.

“Finished?” Vivienne asked of Cosette. She would need to eat again in a few hours, and drink plenty of water. This was a start to her recovery. Regular meals, bathes, warmth, the time to heal and social interaction. It was a basic schedule just to get her on course. She imagined a Spirit Healer would know better than her.

She’d written to the loyalist mages in Orlais. There were no spirit healers among them, but perhaps they knew someone in the Aequitarians. It was difficult to tell with mages rebelled and spread every which way. This chaos was to the benefit of no one save for mages and templars ready to abuse the temporary power they held.

However, if Dorian manages to get the location of Anders...That would be something. Not that she’d trust the mage responsible for the rebellion alone with Cosette.

“Yes.” Cosette stated.

“Wonderful, darling. Now let’s get you dressed.”

“Dressed?” Cosette mouthed, confused as Vivienne opened the door. She’d left Surana there with the small bundle of garments. They weren’t anything fancy but they would make Cosette presentable to the public. A simple white cotton under shirt, thick white cotton underpants, a long slitted sleeves highnecked blue overshirt with a ram leather belt and everknit wool pants that ended at her knees in a baggy fashion. Two head scarves would wrap her head. One cotton to hold the remaining poultice and bandages in place and the last was a beautiful blue samite patterned scarf that would drape over her neck.

Cosette stared at the layers of clothing. It was warm. The underlayers fit snug against her and all layers on top was loose. It hid her form but left it obvious enough to anyone who was looking. Adorning her feet were simple leather calf high boots and her hands were covered in leather gloves.

“Hmm.” Vivienne examined her as she stood on swaying and unsteady legs. She was still too weak but with enough food, persistence, and patience, she would be able to walk all her own. “That will have to do, wonderful work as always Surana. Thank you.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Why...why…” Cosette stared.

“You’ll have to speak up, my dear.” Vivienne rose one delicate eyebrow.

Cosette folded her good arm against herself, trying to shrink.

Vivienne frowned. “To answer your mumbled query, you will accompany me today on the balcony. Unless you’d rather stay here?”

Go out? On the balcony? Where everyone could see her? Cosette stared in awe at Vivienne. It’d been so long since she’d seen the night sky, or daylight, or clouds, or other people. Freely where she could see them and not behind walls, or bars, or whilst in confinement.  

Cosette shook her head. Vivienne waited a moment, letting her think before opening the door. The burst of cold mountain air was quelled with a simple spell. Weaker than Vivienne would have cast to account for the additional access to the fade around Cosette.

Vivienne held her arm out to Cosette, waiting. Shaky and with help from Surana, Cosette stepped to Vivienne. Whatever magic she used, it felt like she was floating. The effect of gravity light around her as they both began moving down the walkway.

It was then Cosette got her first glimpse of Skyhold during the day. It was a decaying castle for sure but it’s sheer mass. The towers, the ramparts. The buildings inside the courtyard. It was a hold yes, but it could sustain a small village population. She could see into the open air atrium and gardens from this level. The towering old trees that had long since been left to grow with nothing stopping them. The overgrowth of vines climbing up towers and even over the ramparts, where she could spot soldiers hacking away at it. There were two circular towers. One short and wide and the other tall and skinny, reaching high but set further away from the rest of the hold. Cosette marveled at every single structure, spotting familiar buildings, like the Herald’s Rest, and even the barn.

“Marvelous isn’t it?” Vivienne asked as she slowed their walking, for Cosette gliding, speed to allow her to take it all in. “We were so fortunate to have found it when we did. Soon it will be the envy of Southern Thedas.”

“Did they fix the hole in Cullen’s tower?” Was the first question that bubbled out, to her horror before she tucked her head down, shoulders bunched up as if expecting a blow. “Sorry.”

Vivienne’s heart broke upon seeing such display. But rather than draw attention, she let out a light laugh. “No need to apologize, my dear. I imagine the Commander has been a little busy to allow the workers into his tower. Now come along.”

It was slow going. Despite the spell lifting her up, she still grew tired. They stopped. Cosette once again got more of a look around. The walkway they were on was one of many. There were two more walkways below before it reached the courtyard. It was nothing like the Skyhold in game.

They made it to the balcony and Vivienne directed Cosette to sit on the chaise. There was a small table and stack of books. At the top was _The Four Schools: A Treatise by First Enchanter Josephus, 14th edition._

“Those are for you to read, my dear. You must begin your magical training immediately.” Vivienne settled behind her desk, her own stack of books on dragons and draconids besides her.

“My _what_?”

It took an hour before Cosette could concentrate on the text in her lap. The revelation that she was - _is_ a mage sent her reeling. The sinking, aching feeling in her chest before Vivienne explained it to her. Her magic paired with Gereon manipulating her aura was the reason she survived the hellscape of Haven.

It was a shock because she’d not once in the two years since Jowan hate-cast a summoning and got her, she hadn’t done anything magical. The only magic between them had been from Jowan. He cast protective barriers and fireballs and sometimes minor healing spells.

Cosette on the other hand, had mostly been in the way. But she had been the driving force behind Jowan. He could do so much yet wanted to go back to Aeonar over and over to search what was left. But they’d combed over it the first time and found nothing. No one. Just the barest hint of the horrors that had gone on.

Instead, they went off in search of a way for her to go home. Because if he had summoned her there, perhaps Lily had been summoned to Earth. It made sense, right until she told him Earth had no magic. So they were back to searching for magical help and scouring the countryside for elven ruins.

They came across people in need. He wanted nothing to do with them. Cosette refused to sit idly by. And then the chaos really broke out between mages and Templars in Ferelden when what was left of Kinloch Hold finally broke. They went into hiding. Jowan wearing pants and a tunic instead of a robe, and Cosette hiding the relics effects that had come through with her. Leaving them to do things the mundane way. And between the two of them, a blood mage and 21st century Earth Girl, that was...difficult.

> “How did you burn water?”
> 
> “I don’t know, I looked away for a second and then it was just black!”
> 
> “A second? A SECOND? It takes more than a second for water to-” Jowan gaped. “Maker, we’re useless.”
> 
> “Berries for supper?”
> 
> “At this point, I’m surprised we haven’t become berries.”

Cosette giggled at the memory.

“What my dear is so funny?” Vivienne asked from her desk.

“Um…” Cosette quieted down. “This section...” She tried to lie with a wince.

Vivienne crossed her arms, and lifted brow. “You’ll have to do much better than that if you intend on lying..”

“I was never very good at lying.” Cosette sighed.

 _That much is clear_. Vivienne didn’t say it, instead she turned back to her own research, making sure Cosette could reach the glass of distilled water Surana brought, along with the assortment of petit fours. Tartlets, puff pastries, macaroons, eclairs, meringues, and an assortment of tiny cakes in various flavors. A decadence Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne enjoyed only occasionally but requested specifically because Costte would need it. She knew this from experience. In her early days in the circle, she was a waif of a girl, having suffered through a rough winter. Coin only went so far when the yield that harvest had been low. Vivienne recalled the constant aching reminder of hunger. Her first dozen meals in the circle had been accompanied with little cakes, arranged by one of the Enchanters. Lydia.

“It’s just a memory. From…” She swallowed hard. “Before Haven. I traveled with a mage and for a time he had to go into hiding.” Cosette smiled. “We were both terrible at basic survival skills. But at least he knew how to boil water without burning the whole pot. A watched pot never boils.”

Vivienne tilted her head. “Perhaps that is when your magic first manifested?”

“What? No. Wait. Nooo. Really?”  

“We’ll keep you away from pots for the time being.” Vivienne laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Do ya'll like fanfiction review drama? If you do! You can check out some hilarious review drama I've been having with one persistent reviewer on fanfiction.net. I ADORE debating because I'm a ~~recovering~~ former troll, so these sorts of reviews are right up my alley. Especially because I wasn't looking for a fight this time, _HONEST!_ I mean _they_ started it! Seriously! 
> 
> I wanted to end the back and forth with them because i felt if they were being truthful, i didn't want this reviewer to reveal any more identifying information. Because HELLO PUBLICLY VIEWABLE Internet, that could be bad. So I compiled everything there and put my last response there too.  
> You can check out the full exchange **[HERE](http://comavampure.tumblr.com/ReviewHOI)**.
> 
> Or parse through it (and check my proof) on the outdated medium of fanficton.net at: [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/r/12385386/)


	19. Gloom

“Maker, hear my cry.” The templar trembled in terrible terror.

Cole crept close in the Chantry. His stuttering prayers as he begged and pled. There would be no answer from the Maker he beseeched. Any lingering spirits soon forgot the muttered words, unable to intervene or help in their small ways. Cole wanted no one to help this Templar. Because this templar, _this templar_ was his.

Cole grinned with a toothy and wide mug. His fingernails longer than usual as he circled him. He let one talon trace down his spine.

The Templar shivered and sobbed.

“Remember.” Cole whispered into his ear. The cold breath took the Templar back to the circle. Back where he saw the face of a frightened young Chasind mage that morphed and decayed to a starved dried husk. On the walls scritching scratches and browning blood. The floor littered in refuse and jagged nail torn off fingernails.

The Templar could do nothing. Frozen still as the memories plagued him. Memories that were not his own.

“Please…” he shuddered, eyes clenched shut.

The real Cole wanted to be forgotten by the templars. He wished it with every fibre of his being.  Despair granted and reveled in it. But what he was now... _Compassion_ as Pride called him. His lips lifted. _Sure,_ he was Compassion.

Cole stooped low to look at the templar.

The lyrium haze parted just enough for the Templar to cry out. Cole let himself be seen.

“Look into my eyes.” The words came easy, heavy and familiar on his tongue. Like an old glove. But this one new. This one unused a different color. It was the same but reversed. A different polarity. A change in the wind. A change in the course.

He raised one hand. He could feel himself slipping through the cracks. But he didn't _need_ to kill to stay tethered. He only needed to help. He only needed to be remembered.

The Templar howled, falling over. The long and slow agony of starvation, solitude, and sickness rolled over him. He experienced what the real Cole went through. Everything he'd felt, everything he'd done to end it...came barreling down until the Templar was sobbing.

“Kill me. Kill-”

Cole would do no such thing.

“Kylan?” The Chantry doors were open. A sister came strolling in to see the Templar collapsed.

Cole withdrew. Tempered trepidation telling him to turn back. He waited as the sister knelt. Only she wasn't a sister.

“Tanner.” The Templar came out of his haze. “Tanner please. Make them stop.”

The fake sister sighed and with a roll of her eyes she pulled a small tiny vial of lyrium dust. “Only the one.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” The Templar cried.

Cole growled. The lyrium would make this difficult.

No matter. He _will_ wait.

 

* * *

 

Everyday for a week, there was a routine. A meager breakfast before being accompanied to Vivienne’s balcony where she spent most of the day. Between books and the constant lull of conversation that floated up from the throne room of Skyhold, to the view of the courtyard, Cosette had little time where she wasn’t engaged in something. At least during her waking hours.

She was still recovering. If you wanted to call this recovering. Cosette ate two spoonfuls of food every few hours. One day she tried three and it was too much for her body and she grew sick and slept the entire next day.

The first time she slept on the balcony, the cold burst of wind through the opened doors and the lulling whispers had her back in Haven. Deep underground and the chill of winter around her. Her gasp quieted all conversation below and stilled the whispered words Vivienne was giving a tranquil by the name of Avexis. It took too long for Cosette to remember she was in Skyhold but in no less danger despite what appeared to the contrary.  

The whispers were the worst part. Hearing them out of earshot, a deep mumbling and drone. She could taste the tang of copper in the air and remember the splashings on her journal and the reassuring presence.

_They will come. They will come._

She apologized to them. Over and over. Eventually she skipped as many pages necessary to never see the blood again.

Cosette stared at her hands. Bandages removed, scars revealed. There were many from her ordeals, from her travels. But one deep dark scar was her shame.

Turning on the chaise, she went to ask Vivienne a question, but found her familiar figure gone.

“Vivienne?” She called quiet and low. Her breath pitched. She could still hear the murmuring conversation below. But when had Madame de Fer left her alone? Her breath hitched. “Viv?” Calling her that would have elicited a response, but there was nothing - no one.

The droning of the conversation, barely recognizable as words but not enough to understand the context filled her head. It hummed low, just out of earshot but rumbled as she breathed.

Was this real?

“Viv?” She squeaked again, looking around for the familiar faux horns down over the railing. She couldn’t stand to look, as it was impossible for her to stand on her own. She was an invalid, needing to be carried and held up by hands or magic.

Her lips trembled and again the burst of cold came through.  Her teeth chattered as the sun sunk low. The sky darkening and the walls became slick with ice. The blanket that she clung to was in tatters and the chaise she’d sat on - gone.

A scrape of claws on stone had her turning toward the balcony to stare at a seven eyed Qunari with bull horns. The cold sunk deep into her bones and the walls caved in around her. _“You’ve misbehaved, bas.”_

Cosette sat up in the chaise, a strangled cry and burst of short lived tears as she heaved and gasped. The too heavy blanket suffocated her. She scrambled ignoring the pain in her still injured arm as she clawed out from under it.

The wind howled filling the balcony with the flutter of curtains and a bone chilling icy air. Her only refuge was the wall. Too weak to stand, she crawled across stone, sobbing until she was pressed against the corner.  The piles of books fell over in her haste. Her teeth chattered. _Insulation._ Her brain screamed at her and she grabbed a book at random, tearing pages and stuffing them into her clothes. Anything so she wasn’t cold anymore.

The conversation in the throne room had come to a screeching halt. Hurried footsteps came bounding up the stairs. The door slammed open to reveal Vivienne followed by Dorian, Garrett Hawke, and Varric Tethras.

Vivienne wasted no time. With a cursory look at what Cosette’s actions, she grabbed a single blanket from the pile half on the floor.

“Kaffas, the books!” Dorian gasped.

“ _Really_ sparkler?” Varric sent him a glare, but also approached until Vivienne halted him with one hand.

“My dear.” Vivienne’s soft tone had Cosette still.

Cosette’s working arm and hand held the large tome open and she tore at the pages. She crumbled them and stuffed them down her shirt.  Her eyes glassy and pupils contracted.

“I’ve seen that look.” Garrett muttered, only to be shushed.

Her entire body shook. Not from the cold because as soon as Vivienne stepped onto the balcony, she refreshed the warming ward. Cosette’s lips became purple, the tip of her nose reddened, her skin paled, and forehead became clammy. The air around Cosette prickled with a cold breath.

A brief moment, she considered a demon, but this close to Cosette, she could only sense the harmless wisps beyond the veil. Perhaps it was her willpower enforcing her own perceived reality?  Whatever she was seeing could all be in her head. If she were any normal mage in any normal circle, nightmares such as this would be rectified with a Templar’s purge ability. But as she held little magical talent, calling a templar would be detrimental.  With underdeveloped arcane talents, and no formal training, Cosette’s magical ability was in a state of early arcane derangement. That was further worsened by Gereon’s aura manipulation, forcing her magical talents inward for life preservation.

While yes, Gereon did the best he could to save and preserve what little life force she had, but it could one day be her doom as no one would be able to anticipate how her magic would further develop, unless they corrected this now. They _needed_ a spirit healer. All attempts to heal her was halted by her aura being retracted.

“Cosette.” Vivienne tried now, using her name and sitting beside her.

Varric’s eyebrows raised high. “Oh no...” Varric gave a pained moan. He didn’t bother to stay behind now. His chest clenched in anticipation. He’d known about Vivienne’s new ward. 

Once seeing her state, his shoulders drooped and gaze turned away unable to handle it.  “Oh no, Songbird…”

“Another one of your lost causes?” Hawke prodded after Varric. “You do have a habit of picking us up, afterall.”

“Not exactly, Killer.” Varric sighed. “She was sunshine in a shitty situation.”

* * *

  
**Haven**

9:40 Haring

 

The biting chill of the Frostbacks kept most of the inhabitants of Haven indoors as soon as the sun touched down in the east. With no warming touch from the sky, the winter was unbearable. Braziers lit the pathways and meager streets so Inquisition soldiers didn’t freeze on their patrol. As the night progressed the braziers became the only sign there was a town this far up the mountain. It was all the contingent needed to know they were going the right way.

Varric breathed into his leather gloves, in hopes of warming them enough to reach his fingers but it was no use. Not in the dead of winter way up in the mountains.

“By the tits of my ancestors, it’s frigid.” He complained. “The snow is high enough to freeze my tits off.” Varric grumbled as he walked behind the procession of soldiers.

Cassandra led the group. Her head angled back just enough to note she heard him, but said nothing. “Maybe you should have worn a better shirt.”

“And deprive the world of my chest?” Varric retorted back, only to receive a disgusted grunt.

“Not his chest!” A gasped carried from further back. “Anything but the chest of the Paragon of Manliness!”

Varric hadn’t heard _that_ title in a few years, if you could call the title Rivaini jokingly gave him. Slowing his steps until he came upon the giggling woman who’d said that.  He recognized her as the one who tipped them off to the trap the rebel mages had set up. Her smile, positively uplifting even in the dreary snowscape they drudged through.

“Never did thank you for the tip.” He piped up beside her.  Her giggles subsided, but her grin was plastered on despite the efforts she made to seem dour and serious. “Never got your name either, Sunshine.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sunshine?”

“You look like a Sunshine to me. Bright-eyed with a gleaming smile.  And your ability to find something wholly funny in these circumstances.” Varric explained, hoping to get a laugh out of her. What happened instead was her smile and shoulders dropped.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “My name is Cosette.” She trudged through the snow faster.

He didn’t see her again until they reached Haven.

Seeker Cassandra arranged his lodgings in the tavern with the warning that he wasn’t to leave. A guard was posted to keep watch over him. It didn’t take an hour before Varric and the guard, Ansley, were laughing over drinks and playing Wicked Grace. Two hours and Ansley became a stumbling drunk. The Seeker wasn’t pleased when she returned and switched out the guard, only for it to happen again and again with someone a little stricter each time. It became a challenge and running bet in the tavern to see how fast it would happen.

“You know…” Cosette wiped down his table. “Seeker Cassandra is going to eventually run out of guards.”

“Oh if only.” Varric smiled as she served him another drink. Like him, she’d been stuck at the tavern since their arrival. But while he was a prisoner, she was just a barmaid.

“Is this your way of _flirting_ with the Lady Seeker?” Cosette jutted one hip out as Varric choked on his ale. “You’re doing so much to get her attention. It would seem like you _want_ her to notice you.”

Varric gasped in horror.

“Maybe she’ll lock you up in the dungeon for her to play with?” Cosette giggled.

“Maker no!”

“You should see your face!”

“Cosette.” Flissa called from the bar. “What do you think?” She turned the wooden sign she’d been working on.

“The Singing Maiden?” Cosette read from the sign. “Won’t people wonder why we’re called the Singing Maiden?” Cosette asked. “We don’t have anyone here that sings.”

“Oh you sweet innocent girl.” Flissa patted her shoulder.

“What?” Cosette questioned.

“The Singing Maiden is a reference of a sort.” Varric explained. “To certain vocal activities the fairer folk engage whilst-”

“Oh…” It dawned on her. “OH!” Her cheeks flamed red. “Oh my...ugh!”

“Now you should see _your_ face.” Varric howled. “You can make a joke about dungeon play but get all flustered when talking about a woman’s orgasm.”

“Yes well, there are _some_ things we don’t talk about in public.” Cosette hissed and turned away to fetch another tray.

“And at that, I’ll take my leave.” Varric chuckled and waved to Flissa. He was in much better spirits now, even if he still had to brace the winter winds to climb up to his room. He had a mountain of missives from the Merchants Guild to go through, not to mention his editor was hounding him for his next manuscript.

“See you tomorrow, hun.”

He was just at the door when he heard it.

“Oh stop being so shy lass. All I want is a little taste.”

“Regrettably, I am not edible, Messere.” Cosette’s voice climbed up just enough for Varric to hear. He paused and turned to watch, all the while his fingers delicately cocked Bianca up. The drunk wouldn’t take her dismissal for an answer.  

“You ungrateful little wench. All I want to do is show you a good time.” He gripped her hips to pull her back. Cosette yelped. Varric took aim and shot a bolt to pin her harasser against the wall.

The tavern became silent. Several folks looked toward Flissa who had a _no weapons_ policy. Swords, daggers, bows, staffs, and staves were checked at the door. Especially at night when the drunks could get rowdy, yet made the exception for Varric.

“She’s not interested.” Varric smirked “But Bianca here, is a sucker for drunk, dumb, and ugly.”

A single elven mage guffawed in the corner. Others near him chuckled.

The drunk growled, reaching into his coat to pull a hidden dagger. Flissa hissed to pull Cosette away from danger, but Varric had it. He’d dealt with worse in the Hanged Man all the time. Though Norah held her own just fine. He shot the dagger from his hand. More laughter filled the tavern this time.

Varric shook his head. “Take a hint, _human._ ” The tavern grew silent then as most of them were human, but none dared to call Varric out on his tone. Not that they had time to as a rumbling filled the the tavern and shook mugs, casks, and tables. A resounding boom followed by a force that shook the very foundations of the building. It tore a wall and collapsed the side that led up to the rooms.  Most of the roof ripped off.

The door slammed open and revealed the bright green light tearing the sky open. Varric rushed out in horror.

“Oh…” he looked down. Flashbacks of the Chantry, of the Gallows as red filled the sky. “Not again.” He really hoped Blondie wasn’t responsible for this one too. He turned back into the tavern. “Everyone alright?” He called.

Most responses were positive in some way. Short of a few scrapes it seemed they were unharmed.

“No no no...nonono.” Cosette had the chest open where all weapons were put away. She slammed the chest shut. “Fuck. The staff - fuck! Where did - how?” She turned sharply to look at one specific corner of the tavern. “ _How_?”

That couldn’t be good. “Everything alright, Sunshine?”

Cosette snapped at him. “For the eleventh time, Tethras. _Don’t call me that._ ”

 

* * *

**Present**

 

Vivienne sent a withering cold glare, indicating they be silent.

“Cosette.” With a slow and steady hand, she pulled the blanket around Cosette. “You’re warm now.”

“Warm?” Cosette’s teeth chattering stopped. “So cold…”

“It is. Do you want to move closer to the fire?” Vivienne asked.

“Fire?” The glassy look faded from her gaze. “There’s no fire.”

Good, she was here now and not stuck. “Not here. But there is one nearby. It would be much warmer by the fire.” A long stretch of silence as Cosette nodded.  Her skin was less clammy. “May I carry you, darling?” Vivienne waited for an outward indication. It was longer this time but Cosette nodded.

Still with slow obvious movements, Vivienne gathered her up with the blanket wrapped around her.

“My room’s closest.” Varric offered immediately. It was the closest one, being on the other side of the wall from his usual haunt just inside the throne room. He’d claimed it as it gave him access to the the servants passageways and let him keep watch of who came and went not only through his window but also from his spot. And it meant Bianca was always nearby, if not always on him.

But that wasn’t why he offered it. He felt protective of Cosette in the same way he’d been with Merrill, Anders, and Fenris. And given how all three of those turned out, it spoke poorly of how well he protected people.  Anders blew up the Chantry. Fenris was currently locked up beneath the Undercroft. And Merrill was in Orlais helping Nightingale. One out of three wasn’t so bad, was it?

Sensibly, Vivienne ignored him and left the balcony with Cosette in her arms. The door shutting behind her.

“The girl isn’t doing too well.” Dorian turned to them. “We’d require the use of a Spirit Healer but they are far and few between in Southern Thedas, so I hear. There are certainly a few names I know of in Tevinter, but we couldn’t be entirely sure they won’t come with their own less than savory ties…”

“You mean to Venatori?” Garrett crossed his arms.

“Precisely.” Dorian smiled. “And you require my expertise for?”

“Not exactly expertise, but having someone who can translate Tevene would make things easier.” Garrett stated.

“Sorry, translate Tevene? Most in the Imperium speak Common, same as you and I.” Dorian quirked an eyebrow.

“Do all the slaves speak Common?” Varric joined the conversation. “I seem to recall only the ‘educated’ ones do.”

“Well…” Dorian did not have a retort for that. It was true.  Most slaves didn’t speak Trade Tongue because they had no dealings with traders or merchants. Only those trusted were taught. “I see your point.

“Do you know low Tevene?”

Dorian scoffed. “Enough to navigate my way through brothels in Minrathous and Qarinus.”

“Alright,” Garrett nodded and looked to Varric. “I can help find Anders if you can translate.”

“For whom am I translating for?”

Varric and Garrett looked to each other before silently deciding on showing him.

In the Undercroft, just below Dagna’s research station and Harritt’s blacksmith station, was a Chamber with a lead lined cage. In the middle chained up with shackles infused with enough lyrium to power an annulment sat a white haired and dark skinned elf.  He wore nothing save for a pair of trousers for his modesty. His body entirely on display. Strips of lyrium blue tattoos crossed with red lyrium rivulets, but the two didn’t mix like they thought it would.  Dagna was researching why.

“Dorian, I’d like you to meet Fenris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a nasty case of Writer's Block plus ya know life being busy and the last gasp of S.A.D..
> 
> (1) For most of Asunder Cole(Compassion) is confused that he IS the real Cole. He goes over a lot of his memories and in the fade the demon presents him with the real Cole's memories. For all intents and purposes, he was the real Cole for much of the book. In the first chapter there is a paragraph that COULD be interpreted as the Spirit Compassion is the reason why the Templars forgot. 
> 
> To make this clear for this story: the death of the real Cole was caused by the Spirit of Compassion and when it came through the veil, Compassion realized what it did and was corrupted into Despair and made itself forget. When Rhys befriends it, it relives the nightmare by killing more mages who beg for it in the same way a Serial Killer has a ritual when they kill. 
> 
> (2) I've a headcanon that if Hawke gave Fenris back to Danarius, that Danarius is part of the Venatori. It seems the sort of organization Danarius would be a part of. Not in the way I've twisted it, but please recall Cosette's words: "If I knew everything, that’d be pretty boring.”
> 
>  
> 
>  **REALMCRAFTING** :  
> Arcane Derangement: I plucked this term from Asunder. The book makes it seem like any Mage not trained by the Circle is a Hedge Mage, I've used it to mean any mage who channels their magic in random ways because they were never formally trained by either the Circle, Dalish, or the Avvar. Basically no training whatsoever. 
> 
> Low Tevene: I have set up this world where common slaves of Tevinter and commoners of Orlais, Antiva, Rivan, and Anderfels do not speak Trade Tongue. But rather it's a mark of education. They aren't the little people. There is no need for the commoners and impoverished to know Trade Tongue.


	20. Vex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING** : Sexual Abuse, Miscarriage, Abortion

Neria stared at the wooden desk beneath her. Important papers and parchments were strewn across the surface.  Guard reports, missives from the Spymaster, invitations to a weekly Interlude that would be missed. An ink bottle wobbled. Her hand trembled as she stoppered it when it was in danger of spilling.  There was a proposed guard rotation schedule, a letter from a person named Mia, and a list of ordered supplies for the Inquisition’s army, including 20 pots of lyrium.

Her brows furrowed. Twenty? She worried her lip as she calculated.

Five less pots from last month, and eight less from the month prior, and ten less from two months ago. Most of the lyrium would go to the mages on the field or Dagna’s experiments, or to her fellow tranquil for enchantment purposes. But the Templars had steadily gotten less of the overall store.

Neria didn’t manage the orders, but she knew Clemence aided Ser Morris with it.  Meticulous as he was with alchemy, he had a particular skill with numbers. Ten pots were always ordered for the mages. Five for Dagna and her people. Which left...five for the Templars.

“Why is the Inquisition only allowing the Templars five pots?” She questioned him behind her. A particular jab made her gasp.

“Ellana…”

Neria faced forward, hands evenly apart on the desk, a twinge of pain as she braced herself.

 _Five, four, three, two...one._ It passed and he was back to his usual rhythm.  

On the plus side, less lyrium meant more Templars going through withdrawal. Which meant their bodies would begin to expel the excess build up. It was a harrowing experience as they purged their bodies. Many templars did not live through the process.

On the downside, it would mean more Templars in need of _special_ care. There were not enough female tranquil to handle them all, though the males would suffice.  Nonetheless, she’d be sure to pass along the witherstalk. It would be inconvenient for the others if they became burdened.

Though not herself.  She counted on another burden to allow her research to begin again. It had restarted initially in Haven, given the expulsion of the parasite in Haven.  

Templars going through withdrawal were far less fertile than those still on lyrium. But an interesting event does occur if the parasite grows large enough. She suspected lyrium addledness per her examinations. She wouldn’t have a full hypothesis until one was carried to full term and put under the blade.  

Autopsy wasn’t blood magic or forbidden if the Tranquil did it. Chantry decree. At least that was before the Circles rebelled.

Neria wondered if she could trouble the Inquisitor with retrieving her notes from Kinloch Hold. It would make her research easier.

Straightening her robe, she ignored the substance leaking out of her.  She would have to hurry to the Undercroft to extract. Arcanist Dagna had several magnifying glasses that would allow close inspection of anything. They had even watched lyrium _grow_ over the course of a week with it.

She set the desk right and excused herself. She bowed her head and left. Her examinations would have to wait however.

“Surana.” Vivienne’s voice called from the balcony. She didn’t wait, but turned inward.

Neria paused once confronted by Prisoner Alexius beside Vivienne’s ward. Being tranquil, she was rightly unnerved by Gereon Alexius’s presence.

_“You know the Oculara.” Cosette spoke to Minaeve as she set a mug of ale down for the Tranquil in the Chantry’s recovered library. “The ones used to find the shards?”_

_The Tranquil were tasked with studying the shards. They glowed as though enchanted with lyrium, yet there was no lyrium in sight. The theory was they were powered by the fade beyond the veil. Especially given the Oculara ‘unveiled’ the locations of the shards when looking through their eyes._

_Neria had never see them in action, but from the reports it certainly seemed so._

_“What about them?” Minaeve questioned as she set a beaker down of rage demon ichor.  It was bright red with streaks of yellow. You would think it’d be searing hot, but on the contrary. It was quite cool to the touch. At least by comparison to blue and white despair demon ichor. It frosted its surroundings. Yet if you attempted to touch it barehanded, it burned your flesh._

_“I hope you keep a close eye on them.” Cosette muttered. “The Oculara are made from the skulls of…” She looked toward the tranquil with purpose. “Their creation was ordered by a Magister Alexius.”_

Neria watched Gereon’s magic tracking Cosette’s aura.

“Her aura has retracted further.” Gereon stated with a defeated eyes.

 _No. You are incorrect._ Neria’s brows furrowed.

Aura Manipulation aided in slowing or rushing the healing process. Aura’s changed with mood. If they gave her a few days, it would return. Given Cosette’s recent nightmare it made sense that it retracted. While her aura cannot expand beyond the limitations Gereon set on it, it can retract further in response to stimuli.

Aura manipulation, if done correctly could be used to concentrate raw magical power without reaching across the veil. A source of magic without needing to tear the veil.

“Surana?” Vivienne called her. “Do you disagree?”

This was why Vivienne had her close. Certainly initially because of their shared research into alchemical properties of wyvern parts.  For Vivienne it was for her lover, for Neria it was to help in soothing lyrium withdrawal.

Now though, it was for this.

“Yes.”

“And what could a Tranquil know?” Alexius rose from his spot.

“Surana studied under Ferelden’s most prominent Spirit Healer. She still retains much of the theorems involved in such.”

Neria didn’t care to be boasted about. Yes she’d studied under Wynne. That was before the Rite.

“She will be fine given sufficient time to recover.” Surana stated as she locked eyes with Cosette. She could see her reflection, the sunburst brand a reminder of what was robbed of her in exchange for dedication. A gift.

Other’s would call it a curse.

 

* * *

 

 

**Haven**

9:41 Wintermarch

 

Neria stared at the splotches of blood along her leg. Rolling cramps and aches laced up her spine and her body expelled the remnants of the dead thing inside her. It was going on three days now. But this felt different.

She waddled, her legs weak as she made it in time to Minaeve’s corner in the Chantry.

“I require a copper pan.” Neria requested.

Minaeve took one look at her paled expression and the shiver up her spine.  They were both from Kinloch Hold. Though Minaeve was younger than she. Neria was nearing thirty, but she remembered when Minaeve had first arrived.

“Do you intend on studying it?” Minaeve’s brows drooped.

Before the Rite, Neria would have recognized and empathized. But now she knew the drooping brows meant sadness. No. Pity.

“I do.  My thesis requires more samples.” Neria tried to quell her lingering looks. It was the wrong thing to say. Minaeve’s expression twisted into something hopeful.

“Why do you pursue this line of research?” Minaeve’s question was another on a long list. “Why pursue knowledge, if not for a desire of knowledge?”

Minaeve’s line of questioning led Neria to believe she sought some deeper meaning. Or perhaps proof that Tranquil were not completely desireless.

Which while true. It was not Neria’s motivator.

“I do not pursue this research for desire of an answer. I pursue it because if I didn’t I will be further inconvenienced by their need for flesh and control. Whether my own or others.” Neria grabbed the copper pan. Beside the chantry, near an elfroot bush, she squatted over the pan.  The rolling pangs sent a shiver up her spine. It was neither pleasant or unpleasant. It just was.

“Are you okay-oh. Oh!” Cosette stepped around the crate Neria had used for privacy.  She was no stranger. Indeed she owed her continued existence to this mageling. Minaeve had gathered all the Tranquil from Kinloch Hold, and in their attempt to flee - they were caught. Trapped. Until a face she thought she’d never see showed up. A face, that her old self would have blamed him for her current state. _Jowan._

After his escape, she’d been made Tranquil. She’d lived through the horrors Uldred put the circle through, only to live long enough to see someone she once… she did not dwell on that for too long.  

“You’re…” Cosette’s face twisted in what Neria guessed was horror. She’d seen that look many times. “Oh…” Her shoulders dropped. “Do you need help?”

“No.” Neria muttered, but her voice whined. Sweat dripped down her forehead.

“Elfroot? Or maybe…” Cosette stepped forward.

“Bark.” Neria managed between gritted teeth. Cosette was quick to pull a knife from the bag at her side. She sliced a piece of bark from the Birch tree besides the Chantry. It was wet with the rain and so it wasn’t so hard. But Neria sucked on it, in hopes to help flush everything out. Cosette said nothing, but stood silent, waiting.

It was some time. An hour, perhaps two, when the last of the plops sounded and Neria released a low sigh as the pressure was gone.

“Thank you.” It was only appropriate. Cosette held a piece of cloth out. Neria used it to clean herself with a few handfuls of snow.

“Do...do you want to bury it?” Cosette was quiet, her gaze downward.

“Whatever for?” Neria questioned.  All that trouble of collecting the sample, just to go to the waste in the dirt. Though she supposed it would be nutritious fertilizer for black lotus. “I will study it.”

That made Cosette’s frown deepen. Neria should have tailored her words more. She'd forgotten how touchy non-tranquil were to such topics.

“What are you studying?”

The question surprised Neria. Non-tranquil who became unnerved usually left or ignored them.

“The effects of lyrium consumption third hand, second hand, and direct on a fetus. I am still on third hand trials, but my findings are proving worthwhile.” Neria explained.  She pulled the copper pan up, eyeing the sample. There were no flecks of lyrium, from what she could see with the naked eye. But with the proper magnification rune and quartz, it would be easier.

“Are you doing it on purpose? Or…” Cosette was unsure.

“What a strange question. What do you mean?” Neria had an inkling but she never assumed.

“Are you...actively trying to become…” Cosette swallowed and gestured in front of her belly. “Or is it forced?”

“Ah. No. It is merely a consequence of Templars exercising their right. Were I to have the choice, I would not have opted for this research path. But if I can aid in the withdrawal process even a little, it would be most convenient.” Neria felt she answered it well enough. Even included proper sympathetic words. Yet Cosette’s cringe proved otherwise.

She would have to work on this. She did not often speak to non-tranquil about her research.

“What would…” Cosette’s hands fluttered and her shoulders tensed. “What would the you before the Rite think of all of this?”

Neria blinked. What would she have felt before before the Rite…

_“Someone likes you.”_

_Blood splattered forward and in a cloud, he was gone._

_“Jowan, I loved you.” Neria whispered. Tears tracked down her cheeks as the brand seared into her forehead._

_“The shield rune will protect you, Cullen.” She held the rune out as the maleficar and abominations drew near._

_“Hide.” Cullen demanded, not before pulling her to him and giving her a kiss. She imagined he was Jowan._

A part of Neria burned at the edges of her eyes. Touching her cheek, her hand came away wet.

 

* * *

**  
Present**

 

Neria changed Cosette’s sheets, bathed her, fed her. Cosette was little more than a fresh babe. She needed looking after. Possessed a hair’s trigger for every one of her memories.

This is why Neria much preferred to induce labor midway. To prevent this sort of situation and burden away from her duties.

Though, she supposed Cosette did save her life. No.  Jowan did. Cosette merely implored him to act. Jowan was rarely ever the mastermind behind anything. Even their ill-conceived attempt at escape had primarily been Lily’s genius.

It was nearing dinner when she could step away. The sun was high, but that all disappeared when she entered the Undercroft.

“Arcanist.” She called, side stepping around the shipment of lyrum. One pot of that would be used to replenish the cage a level below. A cage she helped build with the Arcanist, Clemence, Helisma, and Avexis.

“Neria!” Dagna’s lips stretched wide, but her voice was low as she waved her over.  Besides her stood an elf. One of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. “Looks at this, she’s weaponized bees! Fascinating, how did you manage to tame them?”

“Bit’a sugar water, bit’a flowers. Bees come rushing. Got one hive in the gardens. They know me.” Sera shrugged. “But lis-”

“And they’re acclimated to the weather?” Dagna’s brows rose. At Sera’s nod, Dagna became ever more excitable. “Amazing! How they could have adapted rapidly to the cold temperature-”

“Helps, I had a snow bee queen. Didn’t work so well with the stone bees.  But breed em together and they can adapt. They get fluffier in the winter.”

“You’ve been crossbreeding bees??”

Sera mumbled, with a smirk. “I mean…its not hard, innit? Take two things, mush em together, get something new with some of the traits of the two things.  Like mixing colors?”

“That...is definitely an easy way to explain. I haven’t read of this complicated sort of crossbreeding outside of botany. And even then...this is years ahead of their work.” Dagna lifted the jar.

“How do you get them to attack only your enemies?”

“Well… you know them Ash Warriors, right? They got this Kaddis stuff they use on mabari. It’s scent based, yeah?”  Sera explained. “Bees are the same, but with colors. The baddies don’t really wear plaidweave like I do.”

“So they think you’re a flower?”

“Well yeah.” Sera shrugged.

“The biggest best flower too.” Dagna muttered, cheeks red. Sera gave a low giggle.

Neria snuck around them, giving them privacy.  She entered a side room and collected what remained of her sample and set it on a silicate slide. The magnifying scope was set in this room, so it wasn’t affected by the heat of the forges nor the blistering cold winds of the open air undercroft. It was an even medium that allowed proper study and kept the integrity of their specimens and samples.

She pulled a charcoal pen from her robe pockets and her book. Neria detailed every movement she observed.

It was after supper when a runner delivered a note.

_To the Commander’s tower._

Her shoulders’ slumped.

Her research would have to wait. Again.

She knocked on his door and she entered.

“Ellan- ah - Neria. Thank you for coming.” Commander Cullen greeted her.  He was not alone nor pleased. Ser Delrin and Ser Fletcher were present.

“As I was saying, with the Inquisitor’s continued restrictions on the Templars, we will have to make due with our own treatment for withdrawal.” Cullen spoke. His head shifted, eyelids drawn down toward the singular box with his philter.

“I understand, Commander.” Barris nodded. “We must earn our place-”

“This… has nothing to do with earning your place any longer.” Cullen corrected. “You’ve more than done so. The Inquisitor has commended your efforts and has extended an invitation to the Inquisition. She will be presenting it to you on the morn. But...I will not allow you to accept blind.”

Neria’s head tilted. Why was she called here?

“Blind, ser?” Fletcher asked.

“The invitation comes with terms.  Harsher terms than merely being sheltered by the Inquisition.”

“I don’t understand.” Barris questioned.

“Due to some…unfortunate revelations regarding lyrium, the Inquisitor has deemed it necessary that Templars. Not just those under your command, but all Templars within the Inquisition, begin withdrawing from Lyrium.” Cullen explained with a deep set frown.

“Commander, that…”

“I understand it has been difficult, but you have made it this far.” Cullen spoke. “However, it will be more so in the months to come. As the remnants of the lyrium begins to wear out, you’ll begin to truly feel the effects.”

“And what of wayward magic? What if we were to encounter abominations, or maleficar. How are we to fight the Venatori?” Fletcher spoke out of turn. Angry and hurt, and his hands shook. Veins strained against his skin. Already he was beginning to sweat.

“Fletcher.” Barris reprimanded him, a picture of calmness and sympathy.

“Templar abilities will only be powered by lyrium on the battlefield. Outside of that…” Cullen sighed but turned to her.  “However, to aid you, I offer you Neria.” Cullen gestured with a smile.

It was a smile Neria would never have returned outside the circle before the Rite. A smile she wished she had discouraged. A smile that brought old regrets. Why didn’t she just go with Jowan?

“Her services have been most useful this last year.” Cullen continued.

Neria didn’t look at him. Instead she faced the two Templars. Fletcher gave her a look over and nodded, understanding. But Barris...Barris’s eyes squinted. His fists balled. But he said nothing. Not until they were leaving.  

“Leave.” Barris spoke. “You are free from this ‘assignment’.”

“But sers, the Commander insisted I offer my services.”

“Are you paid?” Barris mumbled.

“No.”

“Do you enjoy this?”

“No.”

“Do you even desire this?”

Neria paused then. She had no desire for this. She had only began her research to ease having to do this. But if it could be circumvented?

“No.”

“Then, I will not _rape_ you.” Barris snarled.

Rape? Neria paused. It wasn’t rape. It was a Templar’s right. Right?

Delrin sighed. “I apologize. But what the Commander offered is not...it is against our vows. Against our morals. It was not his right to even offer you up like some token.”

“Delrin...she’s a Tranquil.” Fletcher shifted in spot, unsure but his allegiances were always with Barris.

“How could a Tranquil possibly give consent...It is the same liberties Templars took in the circles that made the mages rebel. _We_ caused this.” Delrin snapped, his eyes squeezed shut. “We took an oath. It was broken by the Red Horrors. We are not them. And we are _not_ like the Commander. We are better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #adorkable Dagna/Sera scene. Came up with a silly but GENIUS reason for why Sera wears plaidweave. I could NOT pass that opportunity up! Also I adore Barris.
> 
> Things to note:  
> 1) Cullen slipping up and calling Surana the wrong name. He calls her "Ellana." Which just so happens to be the Inquisitor's name.
> 
> 2) Please remember tranquil aren't people to most Thedosians. That's what made Minaeve so significant as to why she went out of her way to help Tranquil. Why Vivienne and Cole are the only ones to be horrified of when they learned they were used to make the Oculara. Cullen and many Templars _wouldn't_ think they are raping anyone. Per DA2, they used "tranquility" to make mages more compliant. IE, force them to "consent" Implying that Tranquil don't need to give consent, they just do what the Templars tell them. But also per the tranquil in Asunder, “Obedience is prudent. To interpret it as a lack of free will would be an error.” Many of them do what the Templars tell them because it's more convenient to just do it. This is going to be a big feature.
> 
> * * *
> 
> 2018-07-05 Edit: Hey guys! Once again another edit to ask you PLEASE TAKE A BREAK from reading. Equal parts for your mental health (as this is a very dark fic) and physical health. Get up, take a walk, hydrate yourself, have a snack. Maybe take a quick nap or go to sleep because you have work in the morning/an exam/school. I love you, but I really don't want you exhausting yourselves by mainlining a long fic. So please, take a necessary break.


	21. Improve

Josephine pressed her palms to her temples, glancing away from the parchment. She hadn't written anything. She’d intended on writing a list to send to Ser Morris for supplies, furniture, perhaps even have a seamstress hired.

After weeks of debate in the War Room, the Inquisitor approached Josephine. Finally, Lavellan saw reason on beginning reparations. Josephine’s instant reaction, set the girl free.

> “She’s deposed from an unknown country. Either beyond our borders or beyond the fade. What support would she have if we set her free? Who would she go to for healing?”

Josephine had to admit, Ellana was right. If they set her free she would have no one. If they placed her with anyone, even with the Montilyet family — as she’d originally thought — she would be under constant watch.

> “And if Corypheus were to get a hold of her. What then? She will turn to his side for her treatment. Are we to be the instigators to the future I saw?”

All that future knowledge in Corypheus’s hands would be catastrophic. Josephine shuddered should what the Inquisitor experienced be realized.

Nonetheless something must be done to help the woman heal. Thus the Inquisitor presented Josephine with a project to create a place of healing for her, that would keep her safe from the enemy, and firmly within the Inquisition’s control.

The Inquisitor asked for a **cage**.

Josephine was not pleased. If she had to make such a thing, then let it be a gilded one. It will be lavish with plush furniture, and all the comforts she could ever desire.

Now, if only she knew what Cosette could desire from such a place. Josephine would ensure it would not be the dingy dungeon Cosette had known in Haven. She sniffed back her tears.

“Ambassador?” Gatsi called, stepping into her solar. Beside him was Elan Ve'mal, the Inquisition’s apothecary.

“Yes, apologies, Gatsi. Elan.” She rose, leaving the parchment aside and quickly dabbing the sides of her eye for any stray tears.

Gatsi and Elan glanced at each other but said nothing.

“The tower’s foundation reinforcement is complete.” Gatsi reported.

“Wonderful, thank you. I understand you had some difficulty?”

“It came from the roots of the tree we unearthed.” Gatsi reported.

“Tree?” Josephine squinted. There hadn’t been a tree in the Inquisitor’s tower.

Gatsi scratched his head with smile. “Stone and bricks are my specialty, but when we came across roots, we cut a sample and gave it to Elan for study.”

“The tree’s long since been cut down.” Elan stepped forward. “But the roots remained.”

“Would they not have decayed once the tree was cut?”

“Not exactly.” Elan added. Here she pulled a sample of the root, cut in half. It’s reddish hue exterior is what caught her eye.

“Do you perchance know what kind of tree?” Josephine perked up. 

“I’ve sent a sample to the College of Herbalists to be sure, but I believe it’s the same one that was used for the war table.” Elan explained. “It’s a red heartwood tree.” Elan offered.

Josephine’s brows rose, and then furrowed. “I see. The Inquisitor wanted to plant a new one to replace the one that made the war table, and to honor those fallen in Haven. How difficult would that be?”  

“From my understanding, not that difficult. It would simply take time and enough groundwater or fog. I have only seen it’s smaller cousin amongst coastal alienages. They are referred to as the vallasdahlen. But this type...it grows larger and taller. I would hazard we would need to contact a Dalish clan to receive a seed for it.”

That would explain why the Inquisitor had seemed forlorn upon seeing the war table the first time. Her hand traced the edges with an almost disapproving look, especially as it rested on part of tree stump. Another stump and it’s roots hung from the ceiling.

“Could you explain how the roots survived?” Josephine grabbed the parchment, already penning a letter in her head to the Sabrae Clan. Perhaps their Dalish Ambassador, Merrill, could be of use in providing a seed? Though she hazard she wouldn’t be able to help whilst on assignment in Orlais.

“It takes years for one to grow but once it sprouts, and there is sufficient ground water, the roots have had their chance to spread quite deep. They are resistant to decay if they are still connected to the tree stump that grew it, they can live on but just barely. Some may even begin to sprout again.” Elan continued.

“Which explains what Jaine found.” Gatsi grumped.

“Oh?” Josephine looked up.

“She found the roots wrapped deep around Skyhold’s foundations. She dug deeper where she could and found they’re what’s keeping the prison connected to the rest of the castle.” Gatsi continued.

“Is there any explanation for what caused the breach in the dungeons?” Josephine recalled being taken on the tour to the prison, the side of it completely blown open. It had reminded her of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“Nothing on that yet, but we unearthed more chambers and levels to Skyhold that was hidden beneath and behind some of the roots. Likely collapsed from what happened in the prison.”

“How many levels?”

“Thus far, we’ve uncovered and began explorations up to three.”

“Maker, three?!”

“The second isn’t fully explored and we’re still working on the third. But Jaine did find another staircase down. Not sure if she can get down there though, not until we stabilize the other two.”  

“That’d make it four in total. How have we not found any doors or passages toward them?” Josephine recalled the reference drawings when they initially arrived at Skyhold.  Jaine and Gatsi had surveyed the inspection of foundation and structural integrity before they deemed it safe enough to begin living in it.

“My earlier notes on the structural fractures may have halted any further exploration. We didn’t want to disturb in case we over stressed it and caused the whole foundations to collapse. But now that we know there is a secondary reinforcement, we’re tentatively shifting it around, rebuilding, replacing, and reinforcing where needed.” Gatsi gave a sheepish smile.

“I see.”

“They are still exploring. The roots are everywhere. However, I don’t think it is just one tree, but many that were once planted here.” Elan offered.

“They’re in the ceilings, but every room we find intact is because of the roots keeping support walls intact. I’m having my guys do a thorough examination to test and reinforce the walls and beams before we do anything else.” Gatsi reassured.

“Wise. We wouldn’t want a collapse.” Josephine nodded and began planning.

“Something to note,” Gatsi turned at the door. “Gannon and Amsel have been examining the brick work. It’s old, older than the other modifications of the brickwork around Skyhold, almost dwarven. I’m having a print of the pattern examined by a contact in Orzammar.” He further explained.

“Dwarven you say?”

“Almost...,I say this with a huge grain of salt, but it almost looks to be dated Pre-Blight.” Gatsi crossed his arms.

“Pre-blight?”

“My studies in the college of herbalists was primarily in pedology. I study soil, sediment, and clay. I helped the areas hit by the Fifth Blight in Ferelden. Introducing proper nutrients to help the lands recover the fastest. Four hundred years worth of research greatly aided Ferelden’s turn around.” Elan explained. “But these bricks, the sediments and clay they are made of.  I have never seen such examples completely devoid of any blight influence.”

“What could that mean?”

“It means, perhaps Skyhold is much older than we initially thought.”

“Interesting.” Josephine nodded. She would have to dig deeper into records then. “Thank you, both of you. Please take measurements of any room and take inventory of anything you find.”

“Of course, Ambassador.” Gatsi and Elan chimed. They were dismissed.

Josephine sat at her desk again. Quickly, finishing penning the letter to Merrill. She had only spoken with her once, in Haven.

> “Andaran atish’an.” Josephine greeted the Dalish ambassador as she entered the Chantry. She hoped her pronunciation had gotten better since her attempt with Ellana. Merrill’s responding giggle however, proved otherwise. “Oh, my apologies, that is the extent of my knowledge of elven.” Josephine smiled as she stepped forward.
> 
> “No no, it’s alright, your accent’s a wee adorable is all.” Merrill smiled. “And it’s a bit overly formal. I feel as though I’m meeting your family to ask them for your hand.”
> 
> “My-oh!” Josephine flushed. Maker, what must have Ellana thought all those weeks ago!
> 
> “It’s alright. Normally we use Aneth ara.” Merrill corrected. “But, I appreciate the effort.”

Josephine’s cheeks flushed in remembered embarrassment. She waved her cheeks briefly before focusing her efforts on the letter. Short of that brief introduction, Josephine had little physical contact with their Dalish Ambassador. All subsequent communication had been through missive while Merrill was reaching out to Briala. To what purpose, Josephine wasn’t sure but Leliana and Lavellan assured her it was to aid the elves of Orlais. Josephine had doubts about the validity of that, given the circumstances of how they received such intel.

> Merrill,
> 
> I received your last missive. Your insight to the life of elves in Halamshiral are most enlightening. It will aide our endeavors during the peace talks come this winter. Please do be careful however. I understand that Briala is not overly fond of the Dalish, and though she may have warmed to you, it may not extend to your people.
> 
> Josephine paused. It was overly formal and conveyed any worries she had for one of her agents.
> 
> The flowers were lovely, thank you. I understand Varric’s moniker for you is Daisy. Though when I asked the significance of why you would send me **pressed** daisies, all he said was I should drink Daisy.

Josephine blushed, remembering the wink and grin Varric had accompanied the comment. Surely, he hadn’t...no. Of course not.

> I made it into tea. I must say it was a perfect remedy for my cough. I saved a few of them and have pressed them further for preservation. I wonder if perhaps you had any seeds of the plant so Skyhold’s apothecary would have daisies ready. As many of Skyhold’s incoming guests may be a touch asthmatic and could use such a simple solution.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Lady Montilyet

There. Perfect. It opened the conversation to asking about other seeds they could have. From the past missives, any question she asked Merrill was followed up with Merrill offering other solutions. Almost oversharing at times. She valued that in her missive reports.

With that done, that still left her with the other matter.

Josephine sighed as she pulled a fresh parchment out. She knew little of Cosette. What little she remembered of her in Haven had been brief glances of her working with Minaeve and the tranquil. Even Minaeve knew little of her, just that she offered to help around Haven. Small odd jobs picking elfroot, looking after the recently orphaned, and when she wasn’t doing those jobs she was working in the tavern.

If only there was someone she could ask for their expertise.

Josephine wanted to smack herself. She was approaching this like a bard. Gathering intelligence first and then acting. If she wanted information in this situation, the best course of action was to approach the target.

 

* * *

 

Levyn’s legs moved quickly. His pursuers were not far. Their booted feet and armor clanking loudly, alerting him to their presence. Levy was lighter and thus quieter. 

He’d been running since Gherlen’s Pass. It’d been an ill-advised attempt to head north or cross the border to Orlais or jump on a ship in Jader. There were Inquisition soldiers and Inquisition Templars at every port and major village in Ferelden. The Inquisitor had done a grand job of securing the border to Orlais and clearing rifts in the area. It was good for removing the chaos but on the downside, it meant more of an Inquisition presence. He couldn’t hide, so he ran. He ran south.

“Why are we always running?” His grim smile stretched. 

> “Why are we always running?” Cosette asked as they ran, slipping through dense trees in the Brecilian Forest. She was much faster than him with her world’s shoes but they left unusual and unique footprints. Too easy to track. He’d had her switch them out for traveling boots.
> 
> “Because I’m a mage.” Jowan told her. He grabbed her before she tripped over a root and yanked her a different direction. Weaving them around until he spotted a cleft.
> 
> “Oh...right.” She huffed.
> 
> “Lighter on your feet.” He hissed at her. They had to leave their camp in a hurry, so they only had the essentials. Apparently the last village they helped had reported him.
> 
> He blamed himself. For using blood magic to heal that girl, but the look on her face and Cosette’s pleading glance. He relented. It wasn’t much, and only required a drop of his own blood. But it was enough to call ire on them, even when they were told to leave town.
> 
> At least the villagers had paid them first.
> 
> “Up ahead.” Cosette pointed between huffs.
> 
> “What is it?” All he saw were trees.
> 
> “The trees!” She smiled and slowed. “They’re sylvans!”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “Come on! Just dodge when I tell you!” She ran ahead into the clearing of trees. They were no different than other trees around them. Perhaps they were a lighter shade, but they were everywhere in the forest. He’d seen many of them. How could they be sylvans?
> 
> Cosette came to a stand still in the clearing, looking up at the trees. “The spirits trapped within a tree, no mouths to scream or eyes to see. A cage of bark, a prison of wood. The things of rage where nature stood.” She spoke as one of the trees came to life, slowly moving to turn toward the trespassers.
> 
> “Rage demons?” Jowan gulped.
> 
> “Or rage spirits.”
> 
> “How is that **any** different?” He pressed her behind him.
> 
> “Hmm...perspective! Of course. I choose to see them as spirits.”
> 
> The footsteps chasing them didn’t bother to stop as they came barrelling into the clearing.
> 
> “Maleficar!” One single Templar stood surrounded by village men. They were armed with a sword and shield, a bow and arrows, and a bladed stave. Jowan and Cosette were outnumbered and outmatched.
> 
> “Oh great.” Jowan groaned.
> 
> “Just wait…” Cosette held her hand out.
> 
> Jowan had gotten used to trusting her but sometimes, some of the trouble they’ve gotten in could have been avoided. Yet at the same time...the people they’ve helped.
> 
> “So you surrender. Maleficar.” The Templar approached into the clearing.
> 
> “I wouldn’t say that.” Cosette taunted, shifting them back. The forest around them creaked to life.
> 
> “Rejoice, thrall. You will no longer be under his control.”
> 
> “I’m not his thra-AH!” She stepped around him. An arrow had been loosened, puncturing her exposed shoulder.
> 
> Jowan glowered, watching from the corner of his eye as Cosette’s hand came away covered in blood. He took a deep breath.
> 
> “Steady.” The Templar admonished the nervous villager. “She is innocent.”
> 
> “What is that pink stuff?” Cosette eyed the arrow protruding from her arm, the arrow dripped pink, as though coated in a potion. 
> 
> Jowan took one look to be sure. Magebane. He yanked a dagger from his belt and cut into his arm. A powerful blast sent the templar and villagers right into one of the creaking trees.
> 
> “Dodge…” Cosette managed to grumble out as vines and roots shot from the ground.
> 
> “Come on," he hissed, and yanked Cosette with him to the side, avoiding the root cage that caught the templar and villagers. They stumbled and she wobbled on her feet, falling over.
> 
> “I don’t feel so…” She couldn’t walk.
> 
> Levyn swore. She was taller than him, bulkier too. Calling on his blood, he cast a glyph of strength on himself and hauled her over his shoulders.
> 
> “Stay with me,” he whispered as he ducked beneath a swinging branch and quick as he could moved away from the sylvans.

Levyn stumbled. An arrow pierced his shoulders. His teeth grit. Knees hit the ground and his pack fell away.

There was no pink potion on it, but he could smell the paralyzing poison.There was little time to work. Breaking and yanking the arrow out, he focused on his blood. With a pinch of fade and blood magic, he boiled the blood in his veins surrounding the wound.

“Ahhh!” He growled and screamed into the open air. Their footsteps grew closer as his skin turned red, the heat unbearable but the poison burned off.

He stumbled to his feet as the Templars Mattrin and Lysette stared him down.

“Be still. We mean you no harm.” Lysette tried to reason with him.

“This…” He gestured to his shoulder with a grimace. “...is no harm? You’ve a funny way of showing it.”

“That was to slow you down.”

“Mission accomplished.” He was still bleeding. He had ample blood for a spell.

“Enough Lysette, he is a _maleficar_. An abomination. We should slay him where he stands.” Mattrin pointed his bow at Levyn.

“Mattrin, we are under orders only to capture.” Lysette barked.

Capture? They wanted him alive. That did not bode well, given what he recalled reading in Aeonar.

“We are Templars first. Inquisition second. He is a maleficar.”

“And we have seen no evidence of blood magic.”

Oh-ho, now they needed evidence? When did that change? Levyn snorted.

“Did you not hear him? His screams? We’re likely in the maleficar’s trap now.” Mattrin spit.

“Oh those screams? I was just pulling out the arrow.” Levyn explained and pointed to the fallen intact arrow. “Bit of a pain.”

Lysette narrowed her gaze at him. “Yet you still stand.”

“Going to take a lot more than a simple paralyzing agent to slow me down.” Levyn smirked.

“So it seems.” Mattrin growled.

“Will you surrender then?’ Lysette took a tentative step forward.

“I can’t.” Levyn raised his hand, glowing white. He was ready with an arcane blast.

“And why is that?”

Levyn couldn’t answer. He sent the blast forward.

> “Come on, come on.” Levyn shook Cosette. He hadn’t thought the magebane wouldn’t work on her, much less knock her out this fast. Exactly how potent was it? “You can’t give up on me.”
> 
> He placed a palm to her forehead, and fingers at her neck to feel her pulse.
> 
> Magebane affected mages and non-mages differently. For mages it was potentially deadly depending on potency and frequency. For non-mages, it made them slightly drunk. But this was one dose. It shouldn’t have affected her much unless it was extremely potent. What were the chances of a backwood Ferelden village having that?
> 
> Low.
> 
> So unless she was a mage. Jowan frowned. Couldn’t be.
> 
> “Ugh.” She groaned and turned over in the makeshift cot. Her abdomen rolling. Levyn was quick to pull her hair back as she heaved. “Groddy ugh." She coughed and spewed her last meal, broth, up. “Where…”
> 
> “We’re in a cave,” he explained as he rubbed soothing circles onto her back. If he cast a glyph of relaxation, she didn’t notice.
> 
> “So we got away?”
> 
> “Yes, we got away,” he smiled.
> 
> “Told ya.”
> 
> “Next time, a little warning before you plunge us into a den of rage demons.”
> 
> “Ah-ha…Rage Spirits.”
> 
> “Whatever.” Jowan sighed.
> 
> “Now you’re sounding like me.” Cosette giggled, foolishly as it turned into a cough. “Ugh.”
> 
> “Hey, let me check something.” Jowan prodded her side.
> 
> “I’m sure whatever that poison was will wear off…” Cosette grumbled.
> 
> “It will, I just want to be sure.” Jowan pulled her up so she sat her back against the cave wall. He held his hand out and she put her palms over his without hesitating. It unnerved him initially, but this… this is what trust was. Full and total trust.
> 
> He cast Mana Drain. Not on her, no...that would be unethical but himself. He tethered the mana to her, watching and sensing where it went. It swirled into her and she gave a breathless sound before blinking. Her aura flitted over her skin before receding when he cut the spell off.
> 
> Aura colors changed with age. If she indeed was a mage, he would put her magical development at no older than eight. As most auras started off with no color, hers should be white. Over time, they changed with influences and studies into specific schools of magic.
> 
> Cosette’s was white with just the barest hint of pink. A single string of red from his own bright red intermingled with hers.
> 
> Jowan pulled his hand back as if burned.
> 
> “All good?” She asked.
> 
> “Yes.” He stared into her eyes. They were sleepy but held no apprehension, worry or mistrust. Even when he just cast a spell on her. Even with her knowing he is a blood mage.
> 
> With Lily, there was a touch of fear laced in her eyes when they first met. When they kissed. In time, as they caught stolen moments, the fear disappeared. When news of his delayed harrowing came and the fear of tranquility rose, they returned. But instead of fear of him, it was fear **for** him. Jowan assumed fear was a natural emotion to be surrounded by as a mage.
> 
> Cosette was a child mageling, an adult woman, but magically a child. One who knew no fear of magic and didn’t truly know the horror of circles. He was her sole influencer, educator, tutor, and protector. She was his duty.

Redcliffe came into view. The morning sunrise over the horizon cast deep shadows. He’d last been here with the rebel mages, intent on finding Pavus, before the mages were allied with the Inquisition. Before that, it was during the Blight.

He sat on the docks. Gaze drawn to the water, head in his hands. His pack slumped behind him.

Inquisition soldiers and scouts littered the place. At any moment, one of the mages or surviving villagers could recognize him. If word had reached to Redcliffe — and it likely had — they could sound the alarm. His Templar pursuers would be here quick.

Let them come. Levyn gave up. He had no purpose. Lily was beyond the fade or dead. The resulting woman he brought through in his ill-attempt to reach Lily, was dead. The mage and non-mage students would know who — what he was, if they didn’t already.

How fitting he should come here. To where it all began. A stone’s throw down Lake Calenhad from the crumbling Kinloch Hold. In Redcliffe, where he worked as an agent of Loghain to poison Arl Eamon. Only for that too to end in failure.

All his endeavors eventually failed. He only wished he hadn’t failed Cosette.

“You didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit:  
>  **REALMCRAFTING:** I spent a bit of time looking at the war table and comparing it to many different trees, looking at the art of inquisition book and comparing it to what we know. It was a life tree. Paired with that and the color of the wood, the grain, and sheer size of it. I came to the conclusion it's a redwood tree. A sequoia! And it makes more sense with how Dalish are Native coded. Redwood tress have an average lifespan of 500-700 years, coast redwoods can live to 2,000+ years. The oldest giant sequoia tree is 5,000 years. That sounds like a really long time for a tree to live. as Vallasdahlen are the life tree. It gives me a smile that City Elves would receive a seed from Dalish clans so they can grow a long lived tree as their Vallasdahlen (something that happens in Vaea's backstory in Knight's Errant). So I made that the case.


	22. Leak

“Snotty witchy pisser. Trust her ta lock her room with magic. Too good for normal locks,” Sera grumbled with a lockbreaker rune from her set. For emergencies. Or well in this case when fat mages think they can lord over the little people and be oh so special. Used it on a few nobles too full of themselves to think they needed that much protection.

“Look at me, I’m Vivy,” she muttered under her breath. “I require _special_ _magey_ servants to serve me food on opal encrusted food pans or whatevers. Pfft.” Requesting this and that to her private quarters and only letting in tranquil to dote on her. Too good for normal servants too. “Bet she has them wipe her arse.”

The door unlocked with the rune. All special magic wards gone. She slipped in, closing the door behind her.

 _“That apostate thinks she can order me around and ask for a fresh bowl of her special liver stew every day, and then not even touch it. She’s got another thing coming. I’ve got a castle full starving soldiers and kids to feed! And she thinks she can be picky!”_ The Chef ran her mouth off about another bowl of perfectly good stew being returned to the kitchen, barely touched for the sixth time that week. Initially, she thought why bother when the stew can go to someone else who wanted it.

Until Sera tasted it.

It was horrid! Vomit inducing.

She wouldn’t feed it to the dogs. Sera had eaten a lot of right nasty things. Don’t know desperation until hungers deep in your bones so bad you have to go scrounging around in the gutter to eat food so old even the rats had left it there.

Sera thought her _fat_ comment got to Vivienne. Almost felt bad. Until she saw her eating with the nobles and visiting royals. That got her angry. Vivy thinks she’s too good to eat with everyone else? So uppity and spoiled she has the kitchen staff do extra work to make her special liver stew and then not even bother to eat the nasty shite?

“Ungrateful Bitch.” She paused in the room, taking stock of Vivienne’s solar. She’d only been in it once before when she snuck in vipers, Vivy said they’d return with six legs.

_Skitter skitter skitter._

“Ugh.” Sera shivered. With a bagful of salamanders. Lizards worked on Solas, surely salamanders would do the same for Vivy.

There _should_ be another door connected to this room, leading to her bedroom. Vivy must have gotten crafty, hiding the door with whatever magic.

“Friggin mages.” She tiptoed around the collected plush chairs and chaise lounge. Her fingers twitched to cut through the finery. Too noticeable. Vivy would replace them with nicer things like her knickers. It’d have to hurt. The small table besides the lounge had another bowl of stew. Barely touched.

Sera’s upper lip raised. The bowl flipped _completely_ of its own accord. Sera laughed bitterly. The stew was spilled and the bowl clattered to the floor. Let her _magey_ servants clean that up.

Eying Vivienne’s desk. Books, papers, and a boiling cauldron. An assortment of herbs, flowers, mushrooms, and some powders. A stack of papers, likely being used as reference, had an assortment of directions and notes. The notes were in the primpiest script Sera had ever seen and in Orlesian. Sera _could_ translate it.

> _“The Grim Anatomy offers many insightful illustrations to the inner workings of Wyverns.”_

Boring. Sera’s gaze sped through the rest of the paragraph. Her gaze skipping over words.

> _“Much of it’s focus lies entirely on – eyes, – sight and perception of reality._

Sera mumbled the words out loud. “Copied ...sketch-...sketchy? Oooh sketching? Right piss off Vivy, ya could have used esquisser instead of superficiel. Pompous tit.”

> _–copied those sketchings – confer with – book on Draconids. – on the relation – wyvern and dragon hearts._

“Hang on.” Sera blinked. Dragon hearts? What was the daft quim doing? She flipped to the next page.

> _Our communications to the University have returned. Unfortunately Frederic has been beyond messenger in the deserts of the Western Approach in study of High Dragon hunting patterns._
> 
> _The prototype potion–”_

Sera looked at the single cauldron on the desk. It sat on a magic flame, simmering whatever alchemical potion Vivy was working on. It was purple. Looked important too.

> _The prototype potion_ _will be ready for application on the test subject–_

Test subject?! Who would that be? Messing about with wyvern and dragon hearts. Sera’s teeth grit as she read on.

> _–in one cycle of Satina. Pending its success or setbacks, I will be able to set out with the Inquisitor to locate him to finalize my potion.”_

Not if she had anything to do about it.

Following the directions, of whatever potion ole _Vivy_ was making, she found that if even one measurement was off, it would be wrong. Good. Won’t take much to mess up whatever blood magic potion she was working on.

She chucked a bottle of deep mushroom into the pot and stood back. In case of explosions. Sometimes when she’s making her flasks of lightning, things go bad. Then they go boom. Dagna usually helped.

Dagna.

Sera smiled. Smooshy Dagna. Her cute wittle self. Big eyes, always asking questions. Not too scared to find answers. Sharp too. Sharper than her arrows but always hits her mark.

Something groaned.

Another step back from the cauldron. It wasn’t what groaned. Came from the table with the spilled stew. Specifically, what Sera _thought_ was a chaise lounge.

The fabric shifted. The bag of salamanders dropped, letting them loose in the room. Knocking an arrow quick like, she approached.

What beast did Vivy have hiding?

One step closer.

It didn’t groan but shifted enough a pillow got knocked loose. A head could be seen.

A person? Sera kept her bow up, tilting one way to try and see more but they didn’t move. Using the tip of her arrow, she moved the fabric _–blanket_ down. Her shoulders drooping, arrow cluttering down to the floor.

The chaise lounge wasn’t a chaise lounge but a very ornate cot, covered in a thick layer of furs, blankets, and pillows. Beneath it lay a very sad looking girl. Thin. Gaunt. _Starving._

Test subject?

 

* * *

 

Skyhold roused as the peaceful morning darkness receded. The night guards switched out from their rotations; the scullery maids prepared the kitchens; and the blacksmith opened their doors to release the heat of their forge.

Blackwall had long been awake by this time and was returning back to the castle with freshly cut saffron flowers for Lady Josephine’s desk. They came from the steepest slopes of Skyhold. He’d have them arranged perfectly in a handmade vase. Then have them delivered to her desk by Josephine's assistant along with a note. The flowers were still just bulbs and would bloom throughout the day, releasing their scent and color to the room. Not too strong, but subtle enough to go unnoticed until it filled the room. He’d penned the perfect message to go along with it.

He stopped at his workbench in the stables. Master Dennet had no problem with his presence. They shared the upper rafters and loft as a room and board. Not to mention he was helping Dennet build additional rooms up there with spare wood for when his family visited.

He had an idea on the arrangement of the flowers, what filler to use to create a pillowing along the base.

He’d never get the chance to try it.

“Ser Blackwall.” Charter prowled out of the shadows of the barn.

“Charter.” Blackwall almost jumped.

“Sister Leliana has asked for your presence.” Her expression neutral but it was her tense stride that set him off.

 _Shit._ Blackwall never wanted the Spymaster’s attention. “Alright, I’ll go soon as-”

“It is of the utmost importance. I’m to escort you. Now.”

There was a finality to her words. No arguments, no weaseling out.

“Right.” Blackwall swallowed.

Charter gestured Blackwall ahead, preventing any possibility of him running. Not that he would, but the presence of the Spymaster’s most trusted spy at his back was not a comfort.

“Through the kitchens.” Charter instructed as they crossed the bailey. She was close enough she only had to whisper.

Blackwall sighed. The kitchen staff would see him. If anything happened, all of Skyhold would know at least. He ducked into the noisy kitchen but Charter had him take a hard right out toward the rookery.

His pulse quickened as no one noticed him.

The rookery was Leliana’s main locale. It was where you went to find her and also where to go to send missives.

He had little desire to see her but knew where she frequented for the strict purpose of avoiding her. Now he was heading directly into the raven’s nest, so to speak.

The faint caws of ravens returning and taking off. A scout with a bucket of spare meat scraps was feeding them. The ravens watched him, unbothered by Blackwall’s and Charter’s presence.

“She’s at the top level.” Charter gestured toward the winding staircase up. She disengaged from him yet never once looked away. Watching, like a hawk, to ensure he went up.

And he did. Slowly at first, but as he neared the top he took a breath to settle his nerves.

“Blackwall.” Leliana called before he even so much as knocked on the staircase railing. “I apologize for the immediacy, but there is an urgent matter that requires a Grey Warden.”

He tensed. Urgent? And it required the Wardens? He stepped up. “Of course. How can I help you, Sister Leliana?”

“Please have a seat.” Leliana gestured to the chair opposite her desk.

Blackwall didn't sit.

“When the Inquisitor found you, you conscripted villagers of the Crossroads.”

“I did.”

“Yet you let them go. Why?”

“There was more need for them to defend their farms than to join the Wardens. I only taught them how to wield a blade, nothing more.” Blackwall explained.

“I see.” Leliana circled around to her desk.

“I had no intention of truly conscripting them, only helping where the mercenaries took advantage.”

Leliana lips stretched into a smile. Not a friendly sort, but a pleased one. Made him nervous. “Admirable. We may need such use of your position.”

“Pardon?” Blackwall wasn’t quite sure he heard correctly.

“There is a man in Chevalier custody in Val Royeaux.” Leliana pulled one sheaf of parchment up and held it out.

Blackwall grabbed the sheef and eyed the murder charges. “He is charged with murder, don't you think he belongs there?”

“Murderers have their uses.” Leliana flipped a parchment. “He was falsely accused.”

“How do you know?”

“The inquisition currently has the real culprit in custody.” Leliana continued.

“Why don’t we hand him over?”

“They are more useful to the Inquisition whilst free and the prisoner is no innocent. He was an accomplice to the crime.”

“And you cannot retrieve him with your agents?” Blackwall frowned.

“Maneuvering my spies to do so is not an option. It will put him at risk, and negatively affect the Inquisition should they be discovered. Additionally, Josephine cannot negotiate without some leverage.” Leliana turned back. “That is where you come in.”

“You want me to conscript him, is that it?”

“Only to pressure the Chevaliers into releasing him into your custody.” Leliana’s lips stretched. A gleam in her eyes. “Of course, you won't _really_ conscript him. Like the villagers.”

“And...exactly how will this help the Inquisition?”

The silence lingered as Leliana stared at Blackwall before answering. “He retains information regarding the War of the Lions. Specifically actions taken by Gaspard against Celene.”

“Ah...politics.” Blackwall sighed and shook his head. “I’m not comfortable in using the Grey Wardens to further political tensions.” Blackwall crossed his arms.

“No?” Leliana raised her brows.

“The Grey Wardens aren't meant to involve themselves in politics.”

“Funny you should say that.” Leliana rose. “When you had no issue using the Grey Warden treaties for the Inquisition.”

“That was to aid in a time of crisis. The breach is sealed.”

“Yet it has left us in political bind, given what has surfaced of the Grey Wardens of Orlais.” Leliana pressed her palms onto her desk and glowered.

“Look, I’ll certainly help where I can, but this… I cannot abuse what it means to be a Warden. Not in good conscious.” Blackwall frowned.

Leliana narrowed her gaze but said nothing. He watched her angle her head, gaze drawn to her staircase. Blackwall shifted to see the Inquisitor. When she’d gotten there, he didn’t know.

“Good conscious?” Ellana crossed the rookery to stand before him. “Do you even care an innocent man will die without your help?”

“Innocent? Didn’t he commit a crime?” Blackwall frowned, taking a step back.

“If you consider following orders a crime.” Ellana didn’t move from her position.

He paused. _Following orders?_ “I’m...sorry. You’ll have to find another way.”

She scoffed. “Care to know the name of the man _you’re_ condemning?” Ellana advanced. He shifted back again.

“I’m not condemning him.” He raised his hands, placating. “I’m merely stating I cannot-”

“Cannot save a man by conscripting him?” Leliana sounded bored. “I suppose it’s no use, Ellana.”

“Unbelievable.” Ellana sneered and backed down. “It doesn’t matter anyway, We’re going to send a letter of conscription.”

“You...what?” Now he was approaching her. “You don’t have the ri-”

“No. _You_ don’t have the right. You’re not even a Grey Warden.” Ellana spat.

Blackwall froze. Blood rushed into his ears and drained from his face at once. _They knew._

Leliana hummed. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out, Thom Rainier?”

He flinched, as though injured. Head lowered and gaze cast down.

“Did you think you could hide forever?” Ellana lips quirked.

“No. Only until-”

“What? Until real Grey Wardens became involved?” Ellana prodded his chest. “I bet that was it, Leliana. He thought he could keep this charade going until a real Warden joined us. Was that it?”

She pestered him, asking the question over and over until Thom exploded. 

“Yes!”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what you’re going to do while we clean up your mess.” Ellana snarled.

“What-” At their sharp look, he pressed his lips together but persisted. “What mess?”

Ellana’s brow raised in disbelief but pushed a parchment to his chest. He stared at it. The words making his heart drop.

“Go conscript Mornay, _Warden Blackwall._ ”

 

* * *

 

“Of course Ambassador, I wholeheartedly agree. We shouldn’t assume to know what her preferences would be. I am however saddened to report that Cosette has not been in the best of conditions as of late, so she may not be in the best way to answer your queries.” Vivienne smiled at Josephine. Her heart was in the right place.

“She hasn’t. Oh dear. Is there anything I could provide?” Josephine frowned as she sipped the tea Surana had poured. “Surely there is something that can aid in her recovery.”

“Unless you happen to know of any nobility sequestering a Spirit Mage, I don’t think there is much else we can do to improve her condition.” Vivienne laughed, her smile light. She put that out there, in case Lady Montilyet did know of any nobility. It would certainly behoove her to try, if she was genuine in her concern. “That aside, I shall see if she is awake enough for now.”

“Of course, thank you, Vivienne.” Josephine smiled.

Vivienne rose from her chaise, leaving Surana to attend to Lady Montilyet and keep watch for now. The trek wasn’t long. However she slowed upon coming to her room. The door was ajar.

Barrier cast, she stepped into the room. She noticed first the smell of smoke coming from her cauldron.

 _Sera._ Vivienne frowned. How many times must she suffer Sera’s juvenile pranks? The least the girl could do was be original. Most of these have been attempted by every new circle apprentice.

Vivienne took a slow breath, her senses cast out. No one was left in the room, save for the salamanders hidden away.

_No one was left in the room._

Her heart skipped a beat and she sent her senses out again, eyes on the cot in the corner. The sheets were done up perfectly as before. Cosette rarely moved in her sleep. A disturbing thought when you took in how Vivienne could barely hear her breath or feel her aura. She’d check on her constantly whilst in the room, fearing she died. But she survived with every rattling breath. 

Stepping to the cot, she pulled the pillows and sheets off. Her heavy heart clenching tight. Her stomach dropped when she came to the empty cot where Cosette had been left sleeping peacefully.

Vivienne summoned the salamanders from their spots, catching one in hand. It wriggled, twisting, body darkening as fifteen pairs of legs sprouted. “Pay dear Sera a visit.” Vivienne cooed, dropping the filthy thing to the floor. The salamanders followed after, slowly transforming into an assortment of bugs. The last of which were something special, just for Sera.

Another spell had the flame die on her cauldron. The potion ruined. But that was secondary, for the moment.

Locking the door once again, she took a steadying breath before stepping back to the balcony. “It appears, Ambassador, as though our little Sera has once again broken into my quarters.”

Josephine groaned. “I am sorry, Enchanter. I shall have a word with her.”

“Oh no, I can certainly handle it. However, I am concerned because she has taken something decidedly far too fragile for someone as uncouth as her.” Vivienne’s lips were tight. “Considering the wealth of information Cosette holds…”

Josephine didn’t need anymore before her complexion paled and she was on her feet. “I shall alert Leliana.”

It did not take long to note Sera was not in her usual haunt in the Herald’s Rest. Though one scout reported the swarm of earwigs in the room. Leliana, thankfully, left the insects be.

A wise choice. Vivienne smiled. But the seconds ticked by and three scouts were combing through all locations Sera was known to have committed an act. But with each passing second, Cosette could be dead, or on her way to it.

Vivienne’s presence on her balcony, overlooking the courtyard was a constant. Her gaze watching the entrance to Skyhold, should anyone try to sneak past the guard. But no one did.

It was nearing dusk, and Vivienne had enough. She left her post and went to the one individual she was sure knew where Sera was but the barn was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE Massive help from LonelyAgain, Chelbizzaro, Seagray, and Spellweaver over on the MCIT Discord. Seriously I was struggling with the dialogue for Blackwall's section. And they helped loads! 
> 
> 10 points to whoever guesses where Cosette went.


End file.
